Sweetest in the Gale: A Marysburg Story Collection (There's Something About Marysburg Book 3)

by Olivia Dade

  So much detail. She must have set those books on the shelves and positioned those sneakers and shiny Oxford shoes on the floor one by one. A jacket’s sleeve was inside out, as if stripped off in a hurry. The laces of the shoes were all untied. The books seemed shoved into place with a careless hand.

  Because of her meticulous labor, Simon could picture it clearly. Two young brothers coming home from a jog or a day’s work, hanging their coats, unlacing and removing their shoes before relaxing into their shared home. Going about their typical evening.

  They’d settled onto the recliner and the couch, drinks in hand. Kaden had lit a cigarette, tapping its burning end into the ashtray. Together, they’d watched their favorite show and read timeworn paperbacks.

  Finally, Barron had gone to bed. Kaden had stretched out in the recliner and inadvertently fallen asleep. Then: disaster. Arson.

  Murder.

  Simon tried not to shudder.

  Inside the bedroom, he didn’t spy anything remarkable other than Ms. Wick’s artistry. Singed walls. Two narrow beds, their covers smoke-darkened. Two nightstands, with more paperbacks set atop them. Two dressers. A desk with scattered papers. The open window, where Barron had escaped in a panic. A closet filled with both professional and casual clothing, only a laundry hamper cluttering its floor.

  The brothers had lived neatly, it seemed.

  Which made the pile of glistening hair at the bottom of the bathroom sink—the cramped space otherwise spotless—rather odd.

  Were they saving money by cutting their hair at home? Had Barron been doing some impromptu manscaping?

  Flipping through the witness statements, Simon searched for an explanation.

  There wasn’t any. Huh.

  As he scrutinized the outside of the home—the green bushes, the faux-dirt under the windows, the suspects clustered around the police officer—the bell rang, and Poppy’s students rushed out of the classroom.

  Silently, he helped her sweep the floor and sponge down the work stations, doing his best to stay across the classroom from her whenever possible.

  “You don’t have to do this, Simon,” she said after a minute, her voice cautious.

  He didn’t look up from an intransigent smear of brown paint. “I understand that, Ms. Wick.”

  “Ms. Wick,” she repeated, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

  After that, she didn’t speak either. Instead, brow puckered in apparent thought, she set her classroom in order.

  When the room was relatively pristine, he approached her desk. She was shutting down her laptop and gathering papers in preparation to work at home. Because, as she’d told him yesterday, her wing of the school sometimes seemed a bit too empty and quiet for her in the late afternoon. After admitting that, she’d turned her face away and fallen uncharacteristically silent.

  She hadn’t used the word lonely, but he’d heard it anyway.

  Her situation was easy enough to understand, even without further explanation. Most of her fellow teachers didn’t know her well, not yet. She’d only moved to the area several months ago, leaving her former colleagues and friends behind. Her parents required her support, from what she’d indicated on Monday.

  Did she have support of her own? Anyone to help her unpack or offer comfort or—

  “I’m ready, Mr. Burnham.” The words were a near-sigh, and she slumped in her office chair. “What are today’s observations?”

  Those dark smudges beneath her eyes weren’t paint, and her mouth was pale and pinched at the corners. Her hazel eyes had dulled.

  Her wispy little buns were drooping. Not in a fun way.

  Right now, as her mentor, he should be offering his thoughts about the lesson, giving guidance wherever necessary. Not that she really required any, from what he could tell.

  Instead, he found himself asking, “Did it blister?”

  She blinked up at him, confused.

  “Your burn.” He nodded down at her bandage. “Did it blister?”

  “Oh.” Her brow furrowed even more. “Uh, no. No blister. It barely even hurts anymore.”

  Which meant it was still hurting. He scowled at the cabinet containing her glue guns.

  When he didn’t say more, she added, “Thank you for bringing me a new package of bandages, by the way. It’s good to have extras.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, the growl of her stomach was clearly audible.

  No wonder she’d collapsed into her chair. She was hungry and hurting and tired and almost as alone as—

  “Would you like to have dinner? With me?” He cleared his dry, dry throat. “We can go over my observations while we eat. Make it a working meal.”

  When she wrinkled her nose in an apologetic wince, he kept his expression blank.

  A colleague refusing an invitation to a last-minute meeting did not and could not cause a pinch in his chest, and that twist in his gut indicated nothing but his own hunger.

  “I’m sorry.” Her round cheeks had pinkened, and she was smiling up at him now, eyes alight once more. “I’d love to, but I have dinner with my parents every Wednesday night. They like to eat early, so we wouldn’t even have time to grab coffee before I’d need to go.”

  The painful tension in his shoulders eased. “I understand.”

  “How about tomorrow night?” Her brows arched in question.

  His lungs filled with air, so much air he was suddenly buoyant, and the tips of his ears flushed with heat. The HVAC system in this wing of the building must be malfunctioning.

  “Certainly.” Working dinners needn’t be confined to Wednesdays alone. “I’ll make a note of the appointment in my calendar.”

  Her lips twitched. “Please do.”

  Another long pause as his entire body seemed to vibrate with every heartbeat.

  “I should probably head out.” She pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan. “Will you walk me to the parking lot?”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Earlier, as he’d calmed himself in his classroom, he’d packed everything he needed in his briefcase. After locking her room, then, they said goodbye to Mrs. Denham and walked to Poppy’s car without any detours.

  In the half-empty lot, instead of immediately easing herself inside her bright red car—an electric vehicle, he noted—she turned to him. “Where would you have taken me?”

  Where would he have taken her?

  If he didn’t know better? If he weren’t a rational man and a professional?

  Anywhere. God, anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere.

  Last night, he’d dreamed about it. Woken in sweat-soaked sheets, so hard he’d ached and throbbed. Stroked himself in the shower until he’d shuddered and gasped out an obscenity, eyes closed beneath the stinging spray, breath stuttering.

  He’d take her in a soft bed, her round thighs spread wide, wide enough for his shoulders, her agile hands clutching his headboard as she moaned and squirmed and came against his tongue. He’d take her over the desk in his home office, her eyes hot and heavy-lidded as she watched him over her pale shoulder, his fingertips firm on her hips while he—

  “Simon?” She was squinting at him, head tilted.

  He shook his head. Hard. “Excuse me?”

  “If I’d been able to go to dinner tonight, where would you have taken me?” she clarified. “Where are you taking me tomorrow, for that matter?”

  Oh. Oh, yes. Dinner.

  “Um…” The afternoon sunlight was in her eyes, so he moved slightly to the side, until his shadow blocked the blinding rays. “Your choice.”

  Whatever she wanted, he could accommodate. Normally, he selected restaurants after careful study of both online reviews and sanitation grades, but a polite coworker bowed to the preferences of others.

  Mischief sparked in her expression. “Uh-uh. I don’t think so. You’re not spoiling my fun, Mr. Burnham.”

  When she said his last name like that, it didn’t sound distant or formal at all.

  Instead, i
t was a tease. A dart of affection aimed right between his ribs, where it lodged and stung.

  “Your—” He licked his lips. “Your fun?”

  She rested that generous, gorgeous butt against the side of her car and tilted her chin in challenge. “I’m curious where you like to eat. More than that, I’m curious where you think I’d like to eat.”

  His mouth opened, then closed.

  He didn’t go out for dinner much, so his favorite restaurants offered both takeout and faultless inspection records. Which now seemed inadequate, not to mention boring as fuck.

  No, he’d do better to focus on where she might like to eat. Places that would please her.

  But how could he possibly predict something like that? How could he solve a problem with so many unknown variables? They’d known each other less than two weeks, so how could he even try to guess what she’d want?

  “Let’s hear who you are and what you think of me, as expressed in restaurant form.” She was grinning at him now, amused by his discomfiture. “C’mon. Out with it.”

  He couldn’t help a tiny snort. “No pressure there.”

  What did he know about her, really? Other than how velvety her skin looked beneath the fluorescent lights, and how warmly she responded to student questions, and how focused and creative and patient she must be to create those bloody, bloody—

  Wait. He had it.

  At the sudden epiphany, a smug smile spread across his face.

  For once, he’d put together clues and solved a mystery, and it tasted like victory. A small one, as always, but delicious nevertheless.

  Delicious and morbid. So very morbid.

  “Well…” His chest had puffed out a tad, and he didn’t even care. “If you wouldn’t mind driving into Richmond, there’s a place you’d love.”

  He’d read about it months ago and cringed at the very thought of eating there. But, if his memory was correct, the review had praised the food and the restaurant’s wholehearted commitment to its theme. Its terrible theme.

  “Really?” Those reddish-gold brows arched again. “Tell me more.”

  Oh, this was going to feel great. “It’s called That Good Night. It’s only open for dinner.”

  “That Good Night.” Her lips pressed together as she thought. “As in, do not go gentle into?”

  He dipped his chin. “Exactly.”

  “So.” She was gazing up at him, hair aglow in the sun, with such rampant curiosity and warmth. “The restaurant’s name refers to death?”

  “It’s a former mortuary,” he told her. “If I’m remembering correctly, the knives are actually scalpels, the water comes in formaldehyde bottles, and they serve their food in little coffins. The whole restaurant is death-themed.”

  “That’s…” Her whisper was barely audible, and her eyes were wide. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard. Yes. Yes, I’d love to go there tomorrow.”

  He resisted buffing his nails against his cotton button-down, but it was a close call. “Good. I’ll make reservations.”

  “I really need to go, but—” Somehow, she was only inches away now, so close the heat from her body taunted him. “Where would you have picked? For yourself, I mean?”

  Since she was still leaning against her car, he must have moved forward without conscious volition. As if he were a compass needle seeking true north, or a man irresistibly drawn to temptation and trouble.

  Which he wasn’t. He never had been, not once in over four decades.

  “When I invite someone for dinner, it’s about that person. Not me.” It wasn’t a real answer, but it wasn’t a lie either. “Even in a professional context.”

  He didn’t feel like a professional, though. In such close proximity to her, he felt like nothing more than a mammal in rut.

  “Oh, I think your invitation says plenty about you.” She wasn’t smiling anymore. Instead, her gaze was solemn and fixed on him with such clarity, he had to fight a flinch. “More than you probably realize.”

  When she got into her car, he stepped safely away and watched her leave. She was long gone before he managed to think of the smartest response to her statement.

  And by then, it was much too late to run.

  Four

  If Simon and Poppy’s shared meal at That Good Night were a train, it remained safely on track for a full two courses.

  Over their Stopped Hearts of Palm bao bun appetizers and Dismembered Duck Confit entrées—both her picks, both unfamiliar to him, both served in coffins, both utterly delicious—they discussed the ways Marysburg High differed from her previous school. How to operate most efficiently in her new environment. When to visit the copy room, which administrator to see for certain questions and concerns, the most helpful front-desk secretary, and so forth.

  As he’d learned through painful experience, she didn’t need assistance with teaching. Still, he could offer practical tips about their specific school. And if he found himself admiring how the flicker of candlelight highlighted the curve of her neck, or noting the golden glow it imparted to her strawberry blond hair, well, no one needed to know that but him. It might constitute a weakness, but the chink in his armor wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

  Then, with almost no warning, and entirely due to his own negligence, their conversational train jumped the professional rails.

  The server placed two thick slices of Murder by Chocolate cake in front of them, and Simon had no way to know they were speeding toward disaster with every bite.

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed Amanda’s diorama. Did you figure out the topic?” Poppy sipped at her mocktail, The Embalmer, between forkfuls of cake. “I’ll give you a hint: Her mom’s a nurse in the maternity ward of the local hospital.”

  With that information, everything he’d seen suddenly slotted into place. “Her diorama is about America’s egregious maternal mortality rate.”

  That explained the stirrups, at least. He’d been concerned about those.

  She pointed her fork at him. “Exactly. Nicely done, Mr. Burnham.”

  If he could, he would bathe in the warm approval of her smile.

  Fuck, she was pretty. Her high buns exposed the sweet roundness of her rosy cheeks, the modest plunge of her neckline allowed a stunning, shadowy glimpse of cleavage every time she leaned forward, and her dangling jet earrings tickled the curves of her shoulders. Under the table, her leg brushed his, a moment of glancing, sliding contact that left him as dizzied as a blow to the head.

  And somehow, before he thought through what he should say, he was asking her a personal question. “Why murder?”

  She swallowed a bite before answering. “I’m not sure what you mean. In my lesson plans? In my dioramas? On a societal level?”

  There it was. The smart way forward. He could steer the conversation back toward professionalism, back on track, with two words. Lesson plans.

  In response, she’d say something about the inherent love of most teenagers for gore and drama, or about her years of gauging student response to different subjects, and he’d nod, and they’d get back to talking about which particular copier most often collated and stapled without overheating.

  Instead, he said, “In your dioramas.”

  Because he was a fucking train wreck in human form, evidently. At least around her.

  “Well…” With a muted clink, she set her fork down on the edge of her plate. “I’m not sure there’s a simple, straightforward answer to that question.”

  “I don’t need simple or straightforward,” he told her, and that was news to him. He’d always wanted both. He’d wanted—needed—solvable problems he could comprehend and explain and set aside neatly at the end of the day.

  Poppy Wick was many things, but she wasn’t neat. Not in the ways that had long mattered to him. And so far, he’d been unable to comprehend her, explain her, or set her aside.

  But he still wanted her.

  To his horror, even wanted might not be a strong enough word for how he felt. Over the las
t few hours, he’d begun wondering whether—

  “My best guess is that I’ve always been fascinated by things I don’t quite understand. I think that’s why I was drawn to art in the first place. Great artists…” Resting her elbows on the table, she set her chin on her clasped hands. “I don’t understand how they find their inspiration, and I don’t understand what allows them to translate that inspiration into art in such disparate, stunning ways.”

  He dipped his head in understanding. “And you don’t understand murder either.”

  “No, I don’t.” Her forehead puckered in thought. “I understand motive and means and opportunity, at least enough to create my dioramas. I can even understand hatred and greed and lust. But how those emotions plunge over some invisible ledge and lead someone to shed blood, I don’t get. I never will, I don’t think. And I can’t even begin to understand murderers with antisocial personality disorder, although I’ve read so many books about them.”

  “Of course you don’t understand. You couldn’t.” Maybe he couldn’t grasp Poppy in her complex entirety, but he knew that much. He’d seen her bent low, conferring with her students. He’d seen her in the grips of justified anger, directed his way, and then watched her forgive him minutes later after a single, inadequate apology. He’d seen her clean her classroom without complaint each afternoon, in lieu of unfairly burdening the custodial staff. “You care about other people too much. You’d never hurt someone without a damn good reason.”

  “Umm…” Her cheeks suddenly seemed pinker, but maybe that was a trick of the candlelight. “Thank you. I hope that’s true.”

  “It is.” His tone didn’t allow for argument. “Are the dioramas your way of working through how people can do such terrible things to each other?”

  The damage humans inflicted on one another didn’t need to be physical, of course, much less murderous. But a diorama couldn’t capture arguments conducted via shrieks and shouts and obscenities and slamming doors, or the terrible silence that descended on a home in the aftermath of rage.

  “Maybe?” Her lips quirked. “But mostly I just think they’re interesting, and they sell well. Plus, coming up with the crimes and clues is a good challenge, and so is putting it all together in miniature form. I’m damn good at what I do.”