Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3)

by Talia Maxwell

  Everything about Josh looked like he was a kid trying to play dress-up. In some ways, it made Annie feel sorry for the guy—his suit was expensive but ill-fitting; he’d used the wrong words twice to describe things, and, yes, she was being unkind maybe, but this was not her style.

  She couldn’t stop the date mid-helicopter ride and so she knew she was in for the long haul for whatever the man had planned. My reputation precedes me and he thinks I’m gonna run. I can’t jump into the sea. That would’ve been a funny thing to text Benson.

  As the sun dipped down past the horizon, they seemed to travel with more intention toward a destination. Annie asked questions through the headset uncaring if the pilot had to overhear her standard small talk for first dates. By the time they’d landed, she’d learned the basics.

  Josh was a Systems Manager and a businessman. He recently bought a small fleet of helicopters from a retiring tour guide and as he told her that, Annie got a prickle in the back of her neck as if that should mean something. When he wasn’t buying and selling things that sounded like good business ideas, he managed major companies.

  She acted interested, but all she really heard as he talked was: he had wealth, disposable wealth, and he needed someone to spend it on.

  The helicopter landed on the beach, and the blades cut around them, blowing the sand. Josh had gone all out.

  “I feel like this is the kind of stuff you roll out for a proposal, not a first date,” Annie said as the helicopter roar died down, its blades settling as they were ferried into a tent by two people from a catering company. There was electricity and lights and warmth and a chef cooking clams right in front of them, and Annie sat, wide-eyed. Brow furrowed.

  She couldn’t believe any of it.

  Josh clapped with joy and hollered, enjoying her shock, and he nodded, pulling out the seat next to her. “You’re right. That’s the business idea I had. A whole proposal package—a whole helicopter, Pacific Northwest experience.”

  “Am I a guinea pig for your business idea?” Annie asked, only half-jokingly as one of the women in a chef’s apron handed her a signature cocktail and a menu. The top read: Annie and Josh and the date. She stared at it and then slipped it into her purse as evidence that he’d lost his rich, goddamn mind.

  “No, no,” he assured her, but most of his ramblings stayed focused on the helicopter tours and the ridiculous dates he could create for lovebirds. “When I heard you were using Twoly, I’d hoped, right that I could show you this. It’s pretty epic, isn’t it?” he mused at his own planning. “I knew you’d love it.”

  “You don’t know me,” Annie reminded him with a snarky glare.

  “What? Yeah, well, we’re remedying that, right?” He raised his glass. “To amazing first dates. I really think it’s marketable.”

  “What did you mean…when you heard I was using Twoly?”

  She didn’t think of the matchmaking service like alcoholics anonymous, but somehow she thought the rules were the same. Those inside the program couldn’t really talk about others inside the program—or use real names prior to a date—or any of the other privacy laden rights they’d signed away.

  The question caught Josh off guard and he swatted at his neck and glanced nervously up to the cooks, who ignored him entirely, and said, “Well, I’ve worked with your dad…”

  Annie’s cheeks bloomed with color and she settled a sigh deep in the back of her throat. She ate her dinner quickly and carefully and turned her attention to the female chefs still intent on working through the menu they had planned.

  Her father discussed her matchmaking with a client?

  She didn’t know who she was mad at most, but it kept changing and so to distract herself from the hell of growing rage, she ate and asked the women questions.

  How long had they been catering? Did they often witness date meltdowns? What was the strangest date they’d been on? Until Josh grew uncomfortable and asked to step outside. He made an angry phone call, the words lost, but the tone clear, and soon the helicopter began to whip its blades in earnest, bringing the beast back to life.

  “You can go,” he then announced and pointed out the flap. “If you’re going to ignore me.”

  “I wanted a match based on all those tests I took, not because my dad told some client about me and he bought his way into this date.”

  “That’s offensive,” Josh said. “And mostly untrue.” He said everything with a smirk—like everything was a joke.

  “Well, that’s how it sounded. What do you know about me other than the fact that I’m Jack Gerwitz’s baby girl? Is it offensive to wonder if you’re here for my father? I don’t think so.” This had her dad’s fingerprints all over it and she was fed up.

  “Okay, hey, hey, relax.”

  Relax. It was the last straw.

  “I’m not your girl,” Annie sighed, hands up in surrender. “This is overwhelming for a first date. It’s, like, crazy overwhelming. You’re not in a competition with anyone,” she said, but as the words came out of her mouth she realized that if she believed that then she was lying to herself.

  She was angry inside and it was building; Josh was going to be the recipient of her wrath, but she was angry at herself for the whole situation.

  She’d fucked up. Josh hadn’t stood a chance.

  “I’m in competition with a lot of people,” Josh said softly. “All day, every day. This isn’t one of those times. I’m just trying to show you a romantic evening. It was a gesture.”

  “Be honest,” Annie said. “It’s half pitch, too.”

  Josh wobbled his head back and forth, admitting she was right.

  “I think I want to go home.”

  “You haven’t even heard the dessert menu. I have a chocolatier from Seaside coming down to the tent in an hour.”

  Annie sighed. “An hour?”

  He shrugged.

  “Via helicopter?” she asked.

  “No, no. That was for show. You gonna ditch?” Josh’s face dipped with all of his grand broken dreams shattered as the chefs, unsure of the protocol, continued to cook on their gas burners.

  “No,” she said but she held up a solitary finger. “I’ll stay for the chocolatier and to stop whatever Don Juan bullshit you think you’re pulling off. Look, Josh. You and I are not a match…but…this,” she motioned around the get-up, her voice softening, “some girl is gonna fall so hard for this.”

  He nodded and nodded, she thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face, and then he looked to the chefs and asked, “Hey, so if I do this again next weekend, different partner, you up for it? Same rate?”

  Annie rubbed a smug smile off her face. She felt as though she could now enjoy the evening knowing it was a story she could tell and nothing more. No expectations—just the moment, the wrong man, and fresh oysters. Plus, she was going to eat so many chocolates.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He’d invited her over under the pretense of going through a few theories about the Schubert murder, but he had to admit it had been really hard to shake the image of her mouth completely wrapped around his cock or the way her body trembled under his touch while his fingers were inside her. It was maddening how it distracted him from the task at hand.

  He didn’t just think about sex with Annie. He also thought about their conversations and her laugh. But he also couldn’t stop thinking about sex. With Annie. All the time. Benson hadn’t told his boss that Twoly fired him from nosing around and Linda Remington’s connection was a semi-bust.

  In the world of journalism, he was not landing upon anything that could be useful copy. His dating life was a total secret and his professional life was a mess of shit he couldn’t write about. He’d made zero progress since his suggested vacation except for two unedited and uninteresting podcast attempts.

  He was angsty, sure, about the idea of total failure. It seemed like a remote possibility—he’d strike out with the lady he’d come down to the beach to see more of and he’d walk away empty-handed a
t work, too.

  The risk, he realized, was worth it when he thought of Annie.

  Annie.

  She had no idea how peculiarly amazing she was. She was gorgeous, even when she frowned, which was often, and he’d run his hands down her body and felt his body jolt at the pure excitement of touching her. Not touching her sexually, which he needed again, but even when he touched her shoulder, her back, her toe, he felt a rush of giddiness, like he was excited to know her even there.

  After the pasta, they never made it back to each other. She’d lingered on his lips and he thought about her every moment.

  So, he called and invited her over. What was the harm in that? She didn’t have to say yes. But she did.

  And he knew he couldn’t welcome her with all the clichés he’d employed last time, so he had to come up with something new and something brilliant that would woo her in novel ways instead. They weren’t playing games—she’d made it clear: no relationship, booty call acceptable.

  As he paced around the house, his phone vibrated in his front pocket. It was work. He answered swiftly.

  “Hello, Benson.”

  “Yo, it’s Nolan.”

  Benson had almost forgotten about the money he paid to Nolan to find out about the two victims. He slapped his neck and rubbed his sore tendons, nodding.

  “Hey! Hey, Nolan. What’s up?”

  “Good. News out here is that you’re living it up at the coast and getting pussy on company time.”

  “News is so wrong,” Benson replied, amused at the accidental accuracy, but not willing to let any rumors start. “Actually, don’t tell Peggy yet, but…shit man. News is bad out from my way. The matchmaking group found out I was a journalist and severed ties. They did not want me poking around.”

  “Huh. Doesn’t anyone realize that’s only a bigger motivator?”

  “Linda Remington. That name ring a bell? Come up in any searches?”

  “Nah. But I sent you some files to look at. Family information, things you probably already had, but it might be worth a look. Biggest thing is…did you hear about his wife?”

  Benson nodded, even though Nolan couldn’t see him.

  “Plane crash in the Rockies.”

  “Jesus, that family has bad luck,” Nolan replied. “Bill and Robin had a son. Fifteen when he died. Details are sketchy, but looks like drugs.”

  “Oh, wow. Tough.”

  “William was murdered two years later. Upstanding man, really.”

  “Oh shit. That poor woman.”

  “No kidding.”

  “And no connection to Missy from where you’re sitting?”

  “Your girl Missy Price doesn’t have much on her, and so no. Not even a birth record for a kid, which I saw to look for in your note. If she had a child, her connection to that kid is long gone in any legal sense.”

  “Bizarre.”

  “You reaching roadblocks?”

  “It’ll come to light,” Benson answered and rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering if he believed that himself. He thanked Nolan and got off the phone, going straight to his computer and opening up the files his friend sent him. William Schubert’s life was clean and authentic—over five-hundred people showed up for his funeral. Missy was cremated and her body had gone unclaimed; the child the sister looked for wasn’t mentioned anywhere.

  Nolan found a few vague references to Missy and motherhood, but the child didn’t exist on paper, and if he was still alive, Benson didn’t know where to start his looking. In the aftermath of Missy’s murder, if there was a boy, someone had made damn sure he couldn’t be found.

  The plan was simple. He’d invite Annie over to canvass the murder scene with him and tell her what he knew from Nolan’s search. Maybe he’d slip his arm around her waist and nuzzle her in the cool February rain; maybe he’d tell the truth—he didn’t want to hear about her dates. He didn’t want to know if she was falling in love or had an impressive outing; or if she’d met a man that would pass her family’s test.

  He called her and it rang once.

  “Heya, boy-o,” Annie said, the playful timbre of her voice striking him straight in his heart.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pelletier. Bought a house Ocean Avenue in 1976 and have lived there ever since. Roger Pelletier works for the post office and his wife, Donna, is a homemaker. Roger found the bodies.”

  “You sure know how to turn me on. Cut it out with all that bedroom talk.”

  “I’m thinking of paying them a visit.”

  She paused, contemplating. He didn’t even need to extend an offer.

  “So, we hit up an old couple to see if they remember anything they haven’t told the police and then…”

  “Drinks. At Bill’s Tavern.”

  “Too visible,” Annie said quickly. “How about I buy a growler and have drinks back at your place?”

  “I’ll interview you at the table. Make it look official. I won’t even look at you like I’m undressing you. I’ll stare down. The whole time.”

  “Take it or leave it, buster.”

  Boy-o. Buster. All the non-romantic nicknames she could muster.

  Chagrined, but unwilling to let the opportunity go, Benson cleared his throat and accepted the offer. A jaunt to Ocean Avenue and then back to his parent’s house, again, for the secret love affair to continue in the shadows, and no matter how much he tried to push it into the light, Annie wasn’t going to budge.

  They met on Hemlock and parked their cars side-by-side, a growler already buckled into the passenger seat in Annie’s car. With the ocean as their partner and their hair turning frizzy and wind-whipped from the salty air, Benson and Annie didn’t care that they looked disheveled or unkempt—they weren’t hoping to be particularly recognizable.

  She tucked her coat around her body. It was already dark and the golden street lamps caught the misty rain as it drifted around them, unwilling to commit to a full shower.

  “That house. There,” Benson said, pointing. It was a lovely cottage and its front door faced the road heading west, Ocean Avenue running north to south. They knocked and waited, hearing the sounds of footsteps and a television in the background.

  “No public bathrooms,” an older gentleman called when he saw their faces through the glass in the door. Benson responded by opening up the screen, waving, making it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t need a bathroom. Jeopardy! played in the background and the familiar beep of the buzzer filled the house.

  The older man opened the door and stared at the visitors with a dubious expression. It was night, it was dark, and the ocean filled the gap of their conversation with sound.

  A woman on the couch answered questions, with varying success, and yelled, “Who’s there, Roger?”

  “Don’t know,” he answered back and then waited for Benson to answer that question.

  “I’m Benson. Don’t need to use your bathroom, but,” he looked down and wondered how it appeared—the night visitors, asking questions of murder. It seemed reckless but important to come off as true crime junkies, and as they slipped into their roles, Benson couldn’t help but enjoy watching Annie wait to follow his lead. Only he didn’t know what story to go with, how best to appeal to the older man before him.

  “We’re here…because…” Benson stumbled.

  “We’re getting married,” Annie interrupted with authority. “Here at the beach.”

  The woman on the couch sent up a heartfelt congratulations while keeping her eyes on the screen. “What is the Hagia Sophia,” she yelled afterward.

  Benson had hemmed and hawed about how to force the subject, but Annie took the lead instead, and he settled back and listened to her spin, both terrified and impressed.

  “Look, we aren’t going to lie to you and try to claim anything impressive. But we met because we were both listening to this podcast on true crime,” Annie said and the older man squinted, trying to keep up, “and our interest in the Cannon Beach murder…the one about five years ago…well, we were dra
wn to each other because we both were intrigued in it…”

  “Oh yeah?” the man asked, narrowing his eyes. Benson knew that look—he was wise to interlopers and he didn’t care about their upcoming nuptials.

  The woman from the couch yelled, “What do they want, sweetie?”

  “Don’t know!” he called back with a practiced sharpness in his tone. “What did you need then?”

  They jumped, fully, into the fray.

  “Were you here that night?” Benson asked. “We know they took place…”

  “Kinda morbid to be interested in crime, don’t you think? Two good looking engaged kids like you,” the older man asked. “What’s this have to do with your wedding?”

  “Morbid is our thing,” Annie said. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a sandy fifty-dollar bill. She looked temporarily glum to part from it. “It excites us.” She looked coyly to the old man and then grabbed Benson’s hand. The man looked between the couple and their hands, taking it in. “Adds spark…to our…love life. To go on adventures related to the stories we love.” She shivered a bit as if the admission made her self-conscious or turned on. “Look, we’ll pay for any story you have that we can’t find online, okay? That’s all we want.” She extended the bill and waited.

  The man pushed Annie’s hand away and mumbled a sound of disgust at her offering.

  “Did she say she’d pay?” the woman on the couch called. “Who is Cesar Chavez?”

  “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” The man ran his hand under his nose and glanced back at his wife, fully engaged on the television. “Okay, okay,” the man said and he leaned against his doorframe, no intention to let them inside. “You want to know what it was like to find a body? Bodies. Like that? Traumatizing. I couldn’t walk down to the beach in front of my home for two years after that…the monster that killed those two people robbed me of that joy. The joy of looking out my own window.”