Missy went to the counter and I finished my text rant to Adrian. She returned with a tray, one bottle of water, two hot chocolates and two puffed pastries. “You said water, but I heard ‘comfort foods.’”
“I love you.” I dipped a spoon into the hot chocolate and scooped a bit of whipped cream off the top. “Mmm.”
“Who were you hiding from?” Missy pressed the tines of a fork into one flaky pastry.
“Mrs. Davis.”
She smiled.
My turn for questions. “Okay. I have two things I’m dying to say to you. First, how did the island’s busiest caterer end up on phone duty at the police station every afternoon? Second, Sugar and Spice Catering is a total hit. Congratulations. This is so exciting.”
“To answer your first question, Frankie’s a policeman.” She clapped her hands. “Can you believe it? When she told me they needed help covering the receptionist position because she’s a new cop, I jumped in to help. When I told Melinda, she said she’d split the hours with me. Team work. And thank you. We’re blown away with all the kind words and massive orders. I’m so glad you suggested this business for us.”
I sipped the rich, buttery chocolate and relaxed. “How can you keep up with everything?”
“I get help.” She winked and pointed a thumb in the direction of the Half Baked display case. “Half Baked splits some of the orders for baked goods with us when we get behind. We’re supplying a ton of food to The Watchers, so that’s fun. Who’d ever have thought a television show would come to our island?” She folded her hands and straightened her posture. “You think one of these young ghost hunters is single and loves big dogs?”
I laughed. “Definitely.”
Missy lost her tiny teacup doggie, Mr. Tiptoes, in July. She’d overcompensated by replacing him last month with a hippopotamus posing as a puppy. No chance of misplacing that pooch.
Maple Shuster, the island gossip, and her crew poured in, forcing the line from the register to bend through the tables. A reporter wearing an oversized press badge took notes as they spoke.
“I grew up on tales of island wraiths and specters,” Maple said, continuing her story in progress.
Her friends nodded, adding support phrases like, “Oh, my, yes.” And “we certainly did.”
The reporter scratched a pen over his notebook. “Have any of you ever seen a ghost or apparition?”
The line edged forward, and their group scooted along, filling in the new space between them and the register. Maple turned to keep pace with her friends. Her mouth stopped moving. She lifted a finger toward Missy and me. “Patience Price. That’s the lady you need to interview. She lives in a building that’s haunted. No one lived in her apartment for decades and things were quiet. Then she moved in a few months ago, and the whole town went crazy. Since she came home in July, people have been dying. Murders. Car bombs. Explosions. There was even a shark infestation last month.”
Good grief. I didn’t cause any of those things, especially not the sharks.
The reporter raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re telling me this lady, Patience Price—” he scribbled on his paper, “—moved home and people started dying?”
Well, that sounded awful. “I think that’s my cue,” I whispered to Missy.
She moved her chair out of my way and I ducked out the front door.
“Hey,” Missy called after me.
I motioned for her to follow, and we slipped inside Island Brew, the local coffee shop next door.
My heart hammered. “That was a close one. That reporter probably thinks I’m a psychopath.”
Missy peeked through the window. “I don’t think he followed us. Hey, I wanted to ask about your costume for the secret Halloween party.”
“What secret party?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s okay. I already know about it.”
“Humor me.”
“The Watchers are having this epic masquerade ball on Halloween. It’s supposed to be a secret, but someone leaked it online. The website pulled it down a few minutes later, but it was too late. Word is out. I bet people will fly in from everywhere that day. I need a Watchers-worthy costume, but all my ideas are lame. Claire said she has the perfect thing in mind. Do you know what it is?”
“Claire’s going?” Wait. Of course, Claire was going. “I don’t think I’m going.”
“You have to. You can’t miss something this huge happening right here in town. Nothing happens here. This is a do-not-miss event.”
“I’ll think about it.” I examined the giant chalkboard behind the counter. I’d left Half Baked without finishing my hot chocolate. “I’m going to get a latte. Can I get you one?”
“No. I have to get back. My popovers should be ready by now.” Missy opened the door and Coach Peters walked in. She gave me a little wave and bustled onto the sidewalk, clutching her sweater around her waist.
A local teen behind the counter took orders while another worked the espresso machine and toppings buffet. Whipped cream and caramel sauce hung in the air. I inhaled scents of the heavenly aromas of vanilla and hazelnut. My mouth watered and my tummy groaned.
Coach Peters got in line behind me. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
“Sure.” Buying me coffee was Coach’s code for needing a few minutes to talk.
Ten years ago, he was my swim and track coach. I tried not to think about how many times he’d seen me kissing Adrian.
We collected our drinks from the massive mahogany counter and sat at a table in the corner farthest from the door.
I started the conversation. “How are you doing? Anything new?”
He rubbed his bald head. “I’ve got to be honest. I’m struggling. The election’s coming fast and I’ve got a mint riding on Davis.” He wrung his hands together. “My wife’s ready to leave me. If I lose, I’m toast. I need help.”
My heart crumbled. “What happened? You were doing so well.”
“It’s all the damn campaign signs. It’s like Vegas out there right now. Pick your player. Bet on Thompson. Put your money on Davis. They’re taking bets on every corner. How can I resist? I know Davis’s going to win. He can’t lose. He’s the island golden boy.”
Wow. “That’s not the point. Beating this thing is about focus. Remember? We talked about this. You have to weigh the urge to bet with its importance in your life. Do you really care who wins the election? No. Do you care about your marriage, mental health and financial stability? Yes. You have to make the best choices for you and your family for the long-term. Betting lasts a second. The repercussions last a lifetime.”
He slouched in his chair, defeated. “I know.”
“Look.” I laid my palm on his sleeve. “I had a really smart coach back in high school and he taught me to never give up. It’s not over until you’re dead, and I can still see you breathing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want you to think of your addiction in a new way. Consider yourself in the long distance marathon of recovery. When you think of yourself as an addict, you put on the attitude of defeat. Then what happens?”
He smiled, tugging his sleeves and adjusting the varsity football jacket on his shoulders. He’d encouraged me to keep going countless times with those same words, and I’d listened. I survived high school, miles of track and endless waves on those words. He looked hopeful. “You remember that speech?”
I locked my gaze on his. “I do. Do you?”
“Yeah. You put on the attitude of defeat and you get defeated. You think like a champion and you win.”
“What about if you screw up?”
He chuckled. “You screw up. You get up. You dust off and get back in the game.”
“What’re you going to do, Coach?”
He slid his chair back and patted the tabletop. “I’m gett
ing back in the game. I’m not an addict. I’m a champion running the marathon of recovery.”
“Is it a sprint?”
He swallowed and nodded. “No. This one’s forever.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a silver money clip. A pair of crisp fifties fell from the fold. He slid them under the edge of my cup.
I stood beside him. “It doesn’t matter who wins the election. Whatever happens, keep your eye on the ball. Right now isn’t important. Your goal is way down field.” I hoped that was enough sports references to motivate a coach. Hopefully I didn’t mess them up.
He slapped my back. “Thanks, Patience. Tell your boy to make sure he wins.”
I flopped into my chair as he exited the building. My head fell against the table. Longest day of my life, and it wasn’t even noon.
The heavy wooden chair across from me scraped over the hard tile floor. “Patience Price. I hear you’re a closet killer, an undercover psychopath and possibly possessed by the ghost haunting your apartment.”
I moaned. “I’m an undercover psychologist. Not an undercover psychopath.” I raised my gaze to the man before me.
It was the reporter from outside the Tasty Cream. Todd something. His lips lifted. “Really? That’s the correction you want to make?” Beneath the smile was a bright blue shirt with white block letters: Reporters Do It on Camera.
“I see you’ve met my parents.”
He brushed invisible lint off the shirt. “Yep. You like the shirt? I think it’s quite clever.”
“Very.” My rebuttal was lost. The man I’d caught watching me on the street entered the shop and looked my way.
He snapped a picture of Todd and me then took a direct path to our table. “You’re Patience Price?”
“Yes.” I glanced at Todd. Todd looked entertained, but the men didn’t seem to know one another.
I cleared my head of thoughts either man might be stalking me. “Have we met?”
“No. I’ve heard a lot about you, though.” The guy’s thick Boston accent sounded more out of place than anything I’d heard all day. “I hear you have quite an interesting history here.”
Todd chuckled. “I heard she put an old lady in jail this summer.”
My throat constricted. That happened a week ago and I wasn’t ready to discuss it.
Todd tapped his thumbs against the tabletop, probably hoping for details about the old lady. I waited to hear whatever this new guy wanted. The man had a top-of-the-line camera on a strap around his shoulder. We bought the same ones for tactical teams at the FBI. Reporters didn’t make that kind of money, so this guy must be paparazzi. Paparazzi made a year’s salary off one picture of the right celebrity in the wrong position. They did despicable things to photograph private moments and ruin reputations. On further inspection, the differences between Todd’s ten-dollar shirt and this guy’s dress shirt and slacks was astounding.
I pointed to his shoes. “Are those John Lobb loafers? Who’d you shoot to get those?”
A grimace chased shock across his face, twisting his features in a knot. “What are you sayin’?”
“Just that you’re a drain on humanity, but you’ve heard that before. You say paparazzi. I say go home.” I clamped a hand over my mouth. Dang it. My big mouth was a curse I lived with. Most of the time I had control over what popped out. At the moment, I blamed my level of discomfort.
He snorted and pressed a twenty on the table. “Yeah. I’m a rich parasite. We can talk later. Until then, buy yourself a haircut.”
I smoothed a hand over my windblown hair.
Todd turned in his seat to watch the guy leave. “Well, he was weird.”
Frustration from a day made of suck bubbled in my chest. “I’ve got to go.” I jumped to my feet and stuffed the coach’s fifties in my pocket. I dropped the meanie’s twenty into the tip jar on the counter. Emotion welled in my eyes. I had more on my mind than I could process in an overcrowded coffee shop.
“Wait.” Todd followed me to the door. “I want to talk with you.”
“Not today.”
I hustled around the corner and down my street, praying Claire and Adrian were gone when I got to my apartment. I needed a few minutes alone. Some creep had insulted my hair for absolutely no reason. Sebastian was chasing a crazed mobster. The Watchers were staying through Halloween. At least one reporter thought I was a killer. Someone else said I was possessed and, at the moment, I couldn’t argue because the next person to ambush me for random conversation was guaranteed an earful.
Chapter Seven
I flopped onto my couch and stared at the ceiling. Something niggled in my mind without coming straight out where I could grab it. I peeled a brown banana and contemplated hypnosis as a way of wrenching the wiggly little thought free. The soft spotted fruit didn’t appeal. I cracked the top portion off and examined it for bruising. Pass. I hoisted my body off the couch and went to the kitchen, wrapped the banana in plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator for later. Maybe with yogurt at breakfast.
The steps to my apartment creaked and rattled as my friends returned with heavy laden arms. I unlocked the door. Adrian and Claire hauled in a box of food truck food and a bevy of new theories. I sampled kabobs while they carried all the campaign gear from my living room to Adrian’s office downstairs and hashed out what they’d learned from The Watchers staff and miscellaneous fans outside Adrian’s home on the marsh. In my opinion, all the new information fell into one of three categories: nonsense, hearsay or hooey. When they put in a DVD from season three, I took a nap.
I dreamed of running for my life in a darkened forest, only to have the scenery ripped away from me when the camera stopped rolling and a green screen reappeared behind me. What a mean trick to play on someone. Tiny cameras captured my response from every angle—wide eyes, pink cheeks, labored breaths. Adrian’s house was wired to catch every whisper and secret moment. Rick liked it. I imagined lifting my phone to call Sebastian, but the world froze before me. I couldn’t dial. Couldn’t breathe. Jimmy the Judge’s smile registered in a darkened corner of my mind. I broke free of his spell and dialed Sebastian, and heard a ringing nearby. Jimmy raised his palm to reveal Sebastian’s phone. What had he done to Sebastian?
“Patience!” Thundering voices bore down on me.
“Ahh!” I shot upright, clutching the sheet to my chest.
Adrian wielded a baseball bat on one shoulder.
Claire pressed her palm to my cheek. “Shh.” She stroked my hair.
Adrian kicked the closet door open and pushed his bat into my clothes. He turned and looked out my window.
I rubbed the haze from my eyes and focused on settling my wild breathing. “What are you doing?”
Adrian rested the bat on the floor like a cane. “You screamed.”
Oh. I tried to remember. Something in my dream. My mind grappled with the memory as it turned to mist. “I had a bad dream.”
Adrian exhaled audibly and hoisted the bat back onto his shoulder. “You want coffee?”
I nodded.
Claire gave me a weary look and stood. “You sure you’re okay? You haven’t been yourself lately.” She shook her head. “You’ve been through a lot these last few months. Maybe you should try to get some more rest.”
Too late. The dream plowed into me like a runaway train. I swung my legs over the bed’s edge and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. “What time is it?” The room was darker than I’d expected. “How long was I in here?”
“All day.”
I texted Sebastian a hurried message. We needed to talk right away.
Claire headed for the kitchen. “Come on. We’ve got every kind of food you can imagine out here. We finished season three of The Watchers and we’ve made a list of suspects on our theory board.”
“Your what?” I shuffled behind
her and stopped at the threshold to my living room. A giant white board on wheels stood along one wall. Colored Post-it notes and printed articles covered half the board, along with photographs of the cast members I recognized from Adrian’s house.
Adrian hummed as the coffee percolated. “Hungry?”
I groaned.
He carried a mug of coffee to me and nodded at the board. He folded his arms over his chest. “I think we’ve got a strong start.”
“Yep.” I accepted the coffee. “Thanks.”
My phone buzzed with a response text from Sebastian. He was already on his way back to the island. Thank goodness. I shoved the phone into my pocket.
Claire picked up the television remote and looked expectantly at me. “Are you ready for season four, or do you want us to start over with the pilot episode?”
Adrian handed me a notepad and pen. “You can take notes on anything you think needs exploring further. We’re looking for clues that suggest how long the affairs were going on and if anyone else on the show was sleeping with Rick...or Anna.”
I set the pad and pen on my coffee table and wrapped both hands around the mug. “I’m not quite awake. I think I’ll enjoy this coffee and wait on Sebastian outside. You can catch me up on that later tonight.” I tipped my head, indicating the rainbow-colored theory board.
By the time Sebastian’s Range Rover appeared at the curb outside my place, I’d had three cups of coffee and an endless supply of adrenaline coursed through me. Freud, my little gray kitty, lolled on my lap, purring and cleaning his mittens. Something Jesse Short, the producer, had said worked its way into my thoughts. It was all I could do to stay seated. Curiosity tugged at every fiber in my body and my knee bounced wildly.
Sebastian beeped his doors locked and took the steps two at a time to greet me. “What’s up, boss?” He turned and planted himself next to me on the stoop, scooping Freud onto his lap. “You’re going to give him Shaken Kitty Syndrome with that bouncing leg of yours.” He nuzzled Freud and scratched behind his ears.
I put my empty mug behind me and folded my fingers together. My lips were sore and dry from biting them. “Claire and Adrian have started investigating Rick and Anna’s deaths. Their fandom for this show is crazy. Beatlemania crazy.”
Murder in Real Time Page 7
