Plaid and Fore! and Murder

by Patti Larsen

He made a face of dissatisfaction, nose wrinkling, scowl pulling at his full mouth. “Possibly,” he said, “but I doubt it. I think ours is more likely the main compass design. The key, if you will.”

  I nodded, agreeing with him. “I wish it was bigger.” Now that it lay there, alone and silent, the sliver of hope I’d been so excited about seemed miniscule and unhelpful.

  Crew, however, apparently disagreed because he laughed and hugged me all over again, lips pressing to my forehead, my cheek, my lips. “Patience, Fleming,” he said, voice deepening, roughening, eyes sparking with enough electricity I forgot about the map all over again. “You did good, kid.”

  I grinned up at him. “Does that mean I get a reward?”

  He laughed again, cupping my face in his hands, a longer kiss landing, lingering, drawing out into a moment of bliss I wished could last forever. When we parted, though, he sighed in a way that told me my happy delivery was going to be shelved in favor of something he knew I’d dislike.

  “I want to talk to you about this thing you’re doing. The Fiona Doyle investigation.” I almost pulled away, but Crew held on. “Patience, Fleming,” he repeated and I exhaled, shrugged, tried not to shut down while he went on. “I’m just worried. Malcolm Murry is a career criminal, we both know it, despite the fact I’ve been asked to leave him be.” Wait, by who? Dad? Olivia? This was news. “You’re putting yourself at risk, Fee, for a woman who disappeared before you were born. And don’t tell me there’s no repercussions.” He slid his hands down to my shoulders, shook me just a little as if he needed me to pay attention and knew I was struggling. “Alicia. Jared. Pamela. The Patterson silence isn’t going to just lift.”

  “We have no idea if that has anything to do with me asking about Fiona Doyle.” The moment I spoke up, though, I had to admit his argument made sense.

  Crew let me go then, crossing his arms over his chest, just watching me, not speaking, letting me dig my own pit of frustration, stubbornness and ornery persistence that usually led me to putting my life in danger.

  Groan.

  I poised myself to admit he was right, hating to cave but worried he had hammered the last nail in my resistance when the front door opened and Dad strolled in like he owned the place. Or, at the very least, was expected. And, as I turned in surprise to see him freeze, look at me, then Crew, then me again with that sort of expression that told me they were up to no good, I felt my willingness to capitulate to Crew’s concern die in a puff of what smelled like boy’s club collusion.

  ***

  Chapter Eleven

  I was tempted to linger and make them both uncomfortable enough maybe I’d get out of them what they were actually up to, but I had to get back to work. I did hug my dad on the way out, though part of me grumbled internally about how it seemed like my own father was trying to poach my fiancé. Not sharing him, Dad. Just forget about that right here and now.

  Still, as I hurried back to Petunia’s I couldn’t help but feel grateful the pair of them had become so close. It could have gone the other way, couldn’t it? The idea that the men I loved might have decided they didn’t like each other sat uncomfortably with me. Would Dad’s disapproval of Crew have influenced my love for the sheriff? I didn’t need to find out, fortunately. Knowing they got along so well, especially after everything that had happened the last three years, endeared me to the both of them. The bratskis.

  But, I kid you not, if my father got my fiancé in trouble/hurt/maimed/(shudder)killed I’d be disowning him faster than he could say Fiona Fleming.

  When I arrived home, it was to Daisy wrapping up the day for me. Her dazzling smile was back and she hugged me when I walked through the door, her graceful self as she narrowly avoided tripping over Petunia who dashed to see if I had treats for her.

  “All tucked in for the night,” she said, grabbing her purse and heading for the exit. “See you in the morning!”

  And then she was gone in a whirlwind that felt much more like the Daisy I knew and loved. Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to have a solid sit-down heart-to-heart with her at some point, but it certainly took her off my act now radar, something I then wondered, as I did my own final tour of the upstairs, if she’d orchestrated to keep me from asking questions.

  Daisy always said she wasn’t smart, and I was pretty sure Rose was to blame for that belief. But my bestie had a bundle of cleverness tucked neatly away behind those gray eyes that came out when I least expected and usually surprised me despite the fact I was honestly her biggest fan.

  I headed to bed a short time later, Petunia huffing her way down the steps, her claws rattling on the kitchen tiles, reminding me, yet again, I was late giving her a mani-pedi, the spoiled thing. Like I ever had the time for one of my own. I made a note on the calendar next to the fridge to call Lily for an appointment for my pug before heading to sleep off the remains of the day’s noxious mood.

  ***

  The water is dark, almost black, with a faint swell of whitecaps as the wind whips past, my hair catching the corner of my mouth, choking me as much as the chill of the air. I’m cold, chilled to the bone, water soaking my clothes, making my body feel heavier, though my heart is pounding so fast I feel like I could fly while the rest of me is weak, spent. The dock bobs under my feet, my sneakers squelching in protest, full of water, my whole body shuddering with shivers, the shaking and sobbing girl next to me pale, so pale, her skin almost translucent, eyes gaped as wide as her mouth. She screams into the gray sky, her hands clutching at me though she makes no attempt to go back in the water.

  We both stare, unable to act while his hand rises one last time. There’s nothing I can do. He’s drowning, dying, and I can’t do anything to stop it—

  ***

  I woke in a rush of panic, clutching at my chest, my heart beating in sympathetic time to the memory, Petunia’s soft woof of concern heating my ear while she leaned in, giant eyes gaping, the rims of white visible in the faint light of the clock radio’s display. I shuddered and hugged her before I could think about it, throat tight with unshed tears, eyes aching with the need to cry.

  No, to sob. As I sank slowly back into the pillow again, I understood at last the anxiousness. The dream felt crystal clear, more so even than my existence in the here and now, lying there holding my pug and shaking. Which told me, as I caught at my labored breathing, releasing the panic hold on Petunia, the nightmare I’d just experienced was no such thing.

  No mere terror-filled dream created by too much sugar before bed, was it? I’d had a few scary nights over the years, mostly about the murder victims I’d encountered, or about almost drowning myself as I sank deeper and deeper under cold water. But despite not remembering this one, it actually felt familiar enough I could only guess I’d been reliving it and forgetting it, or that the details had been locked into a box of protection to keep me from suffering from the truth.

  One thing was absolutely certain to me now. I was there the day Victor French drowned, held Vivian while he died, witnessed that most horrific of moments with the guilt and regret of knowing there was nothing I could do to save him. No wonder my subconscious crushed the memory and parked it somewhere else so I didn’t have to relive it.

  Until now, for whatever purpose my weird brain deemed it necessary I pay attention to what happened all those years ago. How old was I, anyway? Six? Seven? I remembered it clearly now, though I had no idea why, all of a sudden, that box had opened, let out the past in such a horrible memory that still clutched me close as though it would never let me go. Maybe it was the long day filled with stirred up emotion. Or maybe I was finally ready to face it. Whatever the case, when I was able at last to inhale, exhale without my breath shuddering from my lips, I did cry. Just a couple of tears that trickled out, met my hair at my temples, wiped away as I continued to hug the worried little creature who licked at my cheek as if to help with the job.

  I watched Victor French die. And so did Vivian. My legs stirred without my consent, like a twitching need to rise, to
go do something, anything, rather than continue to think through what had come back to me in a rush. But I refused to be a coward and forced my eyes closed, pressing my nose into Petunia’s velvet ear for comfort and did my best to think it through.

  Victor, in the water. Vivian, too. I went in after them, got to him first. Victor, panic in his eyes, made me swim to his sister. I remembered him pushing against me, toward her, while he sank, sank.

  More tears, more trembling, more soft whines from Petunia. But wait, we weren’t alone that day, were we? Vague recollection woke, the memory of looking up at the dock, with Vivian tucked against me, seeing another person there. Someone who hesitated one moment before running away without helping at all.

  But who? It wasn’t clear for some reason. Whoever stood there could have saved Victor. And didn’t. They’d fled instead of doing the right thing. Why? Who had reason to let Victor French die?

  I didn’t sleep much the rest of the night, digging as much as I could into the memory. At least doing so blunted the hurt that had risen, the fear and anxiety tied to that day. Horrible, the memory, but the more familiar it became, the more I faced it, the less impact it had until I lay there, Petunia snoring but with her head on my shoulder, bless her, staring at the ceiling, frustration winning out as it often did.

  Temper, Fee. This time it served me well.

  By the time I rose at 6AM to start my day, I was a bit groggy but determined to figure out this mystery, too. I stumbled through my routine, mind drifting back over and over to the instant on the dock—where were we? Not the yacht club, some private dock somewhere, the location of which escaped me—when I held Vivian against me while her brother drowned in front of us both.

  When I heard Mom arrive I headed for the kitchen, questions burning holes in my mind, and despite everything else going on the sad events of that day the only thing I could think about. In fact, I had my mouth open to tell her what I’d remembered, what I’d dreamed about, the door barely open in front of me, before I realized Mom wasn’t alone.

  And that Alicia stood in my kitchen, her face twisted in worry, her blue eyes begging me for help.

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  I was so startled to see her I forgot everything, including the dream, my fog dissipating, and the sudden surge of happy feeling maybe this meant the end to our conflict. I stuttered to a halt, one hand reaching out toward her, but she returned her attention to Mom with a slightly guilty expression, quashing the hopes I had this was anything but business.

  And I was right. Alicia’s hands wrung in front of her, her anxiety high but having nothing to do with coming here to tell me what the hell was going on. Instead, she seemed humbled by the fact she’d been forced into this position as she spoke.

  “How could they cancel on me like this? At the last minute? The only caterers we could get, and they’re from Montpelier.” That was a long way to come to work the tournament. “With our season so busy already, how could they?” She aimed those questions at Mom as I joined them, though the warm feeling I’d felt awaken died off and I kept my distance, crossing my arms over my chest to keep from grabbing her and shaking her and demanding she talk to me already.

  “I’m sorry, Alicia,” Mom said, shaking her head, glancing at me. Her uncharacteristic coldness was clearly tied to her loyalty to me. Mom had heard me say—how many times the last few months?—how hurt and disappointed I was by Alicia and Jared’s distance. And one didn’t lightly cross Lucy Fleming and expect to get away with it. “We’re overwhelmed ourselves. I can’t possibly get away from Petunia’s right now, let alone the annex and the three events we have to prep for in the next week.” Two weddings and a retirement party planned ages ago.

  The young lodge manager seemed to crumble a bit, eyes blinking, huge wet tears standing in the corners. I’d never seen Alicia so stressed and I’d seen her in terrible moments, like only a few months ago when she’d found the dead body of Faith Leeman hanging in her ballroom. But this young woman? I barely recognized her. The Alicia I (thought I) knew was tougher than any setback. She’d worked for Jared’s father and if she could survive the gross ickiness that had been Pete Wilkins, not to mention the tough life she’d come up from and a drug-dealer brother on the run from the police, she could survive anything. And had, up to now. It was clear, though, from the tension in her, the vibration of her emotions so near the surface, right at the breaking point, that she didn’t just need our help in her business disaster, nope.

  Alicia was reaching out for more than that. She had the look of a woman desperate to shed the weight of something crushing her very soul.

  I made a choice in that moment, one I would likely regret, but that I couldn’t turn my back on. “We’ll help in any way we can.”

  Mom stared at me, gaped, actually, my usually collected and composed mother speechless. Alicia’s reaction, her mish-mash of guilt, relief, desperation and fear was all the proof I needed I’d done the right thing. Sure, we were stretched thin, but who wasn’t? And she needed to know I was her friend, now more than ever. Because whatever was going on with her, with Jared and his mother, with the Pattersons as a whole? Alicia clearly didn’t want any part in it.

  So, selfish caveat, I’m not embarrassed to admit. If I did her a solid, I knew she’d cave when the time came to put the pressure on. Altruism be damned.

  Before I could trot myself further down that rabbit hole, Alicia lunged for me, taking me by surprise all over again, hugging me tight, her lips pressed to my ear.

  “I can’t, Fee,” she whispered. “Jared is at stake.” She released me just as fast, cheeks bright pink, eyes huge, before she spun in a flurry and blurted at Mom. “My chef refuses to pitch in. And I can’t even fire him because we’re at our limit.” She did cry then, angry and frustrated tears and because I knew exactly how she felt, I just nodded. “All I need is something to feed the masses that are coming to the tournament. The caterers had big plans, but it doesn’t have to be fancy, I swear.”

  Mom sighed, brief and tired, but her comforting confidence didn’t stay away long. “We’ll figure something out, dear,” she said. Obviously she’d chosen to relent on my account. Something I’d be hearing about, you betcha. “Fee and I will be there in an hour to take a look.”

  The pointed look my mother gave me? Yeah, I’d be going with her all right. After I heard a word or two about just what the hell I’d been thinking in Mom’s very best not really judging but judging principal’s voice.

  Sigh.

  Alicia hugged Mom tight, then me again, though it was a fast embrace that ended before I could speak.

  “Thank you so much.” She hesitated a moment, hands pressed to the front of her business suit jacket, head down. Her blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder, fallen free of the bun she’d worn if the free bobby pins clinging to her nape were any indication but she made no effort to fix it. “So much. You two are… thank you.” And then, she fled, out the back door and into the garden, likely around the back to the parking lot so she could, what? Avoid the front door and the possibility one of the Pattersons would see she’d been here?

  Whatever. I had digging to do.

  I didn’t get to talk to Mom about the dream, not when she spun on me with a firm and resolute expression. “Fiona Fleming,” she said. Stopped. Inhaled through her nose. Exhaled through her parted lips. And laughed. “I love you, sweetie,” she said. “You’re a good friend to someone who’s caught between a rock and that damned mountain.” Was she referring to the one the lodge stood on or the other housing the Patterson mansion? I guess it didn’t matter one way or the other. Mom pulled off her apron, frowning into the distance as she thought things through. “I have an idea,” she said. “Shall we?”

  Mom’s ideas usually involved me agreeing to everything she said. And since this had been my idea? I sighed in turn and nodded.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  ***

  An hour later, Mom cracking orders like a general even
though she did so with the steady and level charisma she’d perfected keeping high school students orderly, I settled the last BBQ in place next to the 15th green, the canopy overhead flapping slightly in the breeze while a handful of Alicia’s staff hustled to set up the tents.

  Turned out Mom’s idea had to do with good old fashioned hot dogs and hamburgers, grills and enough buns, relish, mustard, ketchup and potato chips as Reading had to offer. More, actually, since she’d had Alicia send her custodian, Bill Saunders, off to the big mall near the highway to fetch more supplies. He’d left Moose behind, the giant Newfoundland trailing along with me, Petunia delighted to see her massive friend, the monstrous beast keeping the smaller, less well behaved pug occupied.

  I straightened from turning on the gas, wiping my hands on the thighs of my jeans, realizing I’d somehow gotten grubby (because lugging BBQ’s was a clean occupation, right). Of course, at that exact moment, as I examined the grease stains on my pants, the same on my hands—and likely my nose because hadn’t I just scratched it a moment ago all unknowing about said grubbiness?—to find Vivian French standing not five feet from me, looking me up and down in that condescending way of hers that built up my temper.

  “Fee.” She nodded to me like she was the queen of the world and I her lowly servant. Thing was, there had been a time I’d let her get to me, her attitude, the way she always looked so perfect and poised. Case in point with her pristine pale blue designer suit—had to be Grace Fiore, her designer of choice and a one of my favorite new people—elegantly upswept icy hair and those clear blue eyes accented in light but framing makeup perfect for a photoshoot.

  Of course, now that I knew she used to be a model, her continuous attention to her own physical details made perfect sense, a truth I hadn’t known until just a few months ago. Gave a bit of perspective to how careful she was with how she looked, with her outward appearance. Did it make the inside suffer? In a flash of understanding that diffused me into the sort of calm I had never felt with her before—and knew I would feel with her evermore—I embraced the fact I was free to look, act and be whoever I wanted, who made me happy.