by Lucy Quinn
Cookie cringed. If anything was going ruin her cover it was social media. The last thing she needed was her mother putting anything online, but Cookie had already learned there was no controlling Rain. At least her mother’s account was under her new alias.
The famous singer bit her lip and glanced down at the matched luggage by her feet. “Um, I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t post anything about my being here, actually,” she said, her voice just as husky and melodic in real life as in every interview or behind-the-scenes video Cookie had ever seen. “At least, not until after I’m gone.” She shrugged, flicking back her long, wavy, golden hair. “I really don’t need to get swarmed by paparazzi right now.”
Rain looked like she wanted to object, but Cookie nudged her. “Of course,” she assured the singer. “That’s no problem at all.”
Hayley’s startlingly green eyes flicked up to Cookie’s own brown gaze. “Thank you.” Then those same emerald orbs filled up with tears. “I—I just need to take care of some family business, is all. Hard to do with cameras in your face every second.”
Cookie nodded sympathetically.
Rain, however, was still bouncing around like a small child on a pogo stick. “My daughter’s one of your biggest fans,” she gushed at Hayley, who smiled even though her eyes were still sad. “Sweetie, do you remember that time when I took you to a Hayley concert?” Rain laughed. “You were, what, twelve? You were so excited. You sang the whole way there!”
Cookie sighed and gave Hayley a ‘moms, what can you do?’ shrug.
Then, to make things worse, Rain started to sing. “You said you were the one for me,” she crooned in her best Hayley impersonation—which wasn’t all that good. “But then you cheated on me, and one and one and one makes three, that’s a number I can never be.” She danced around the two of them there in the hall, sashaying her hips like Hayley had in the famous video.
Cookie grimaced at the ridiculous display and Hayley burst into tears.
“What’d I do?” Rain asked, immediately stopping mid-gyration. “Aw, honey, let it out, it’s okay.” She pulled the much taller Hayley down into a hug and patted the distraught singer on the shoulder. “There, there.”
Cookie wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself in this situation. Should she say something? Back out and give Hayley some space? Pull Rain off her? What? Just then, she heard the sound of heavy boots clomping down the stairs.
“Okay, you’re all set,” Dylan called out as he came into view. He was still shirtless, his T-shirt tossed carelessly over one shoulder, a light sheen of sweat making his upper body glisten. “Some of the wiring had pulled loose, so I—” he froze mid-step and mid-sentence as he took in the scene before him. Then his eyes zeroed in on the third woman’s face. “Hayley.”
At the sound of her name, the singer glanced up. “Dylan?” she gasped. The next second she was pulling free of Rain and throwing herself into Dylan’s arms as he practically leaped down the steps to meet her.
“I take it you two know each other?” Cookie asked, trying to tamp down the jealousy flaring within her.
“I—we—yeah,” Dylan managed over Hayley’s head, his arms still curled protectively around her. “I was her bodyguard, a while back.”
“You were a lot more than that,” Hayley replied, pulling back enough to bat her eyelashes at him. This time it was Dylan who flushed and glanced away.
“Hayley, why didn’t you call me?” he asked after a second. His eyes flicked to Cookie and then away again before returning to the singer still clinging to him.
The question caused her to start crying again. “Oh, Dylan,” she sobbed, burying her head against Dylan’s chest. As she clung to him Dylan mouthed the word “Dickie,” to Cookie.
“Wait, what?” Could she be — the revelation startled Cookie out of the murderous thoughts she’d been having. “Dickie Dungworth is your brother?”
That got the singer to release Dylan to turn and look at her. “That’s right,” she answered, clearly puzzled that the local innkeeper would already know about her brother’s recent demise. “I changed my name when I started singing.” She wrinkled her famously perky nose. “Hayley Dungworth didn’t exactly have the right ring to it.”
“I’m so sorry,” she told Hayley, unable to stay angry at the singer when she was clearly so upset. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Rain agreed. “You know what? Why don’t you just sing it out, sweetie. You know, like you did after your grandmother died. The tribute was so touching.”
Hayley’s face clouded. “Maybe,” she replied, wrapping her arms around herself.
Hayley Holloway was as famous for her songwriting as for her singing, and most of her songs were based on events in her own life, good and bad—but the biggest hits had always been the ones about her ill-fated romances and other mishaps. “I’m really tired, actually,” Hayley continued. “I think I’d like to lie down for a bit.”
It didn’t take Rain long to catch on—Cookie’s mom might be a little unusual at times, and tactless most of the time, but she wasn’t stupid. “Oh, of course!” she said, turning to the row of keys mounted on the wall. “You’ll be in room three, dear, right at the top of the stairs. It’s one of our best.” The key scrapped against wood as she removed it from its hook and handed it to their guest.
“I’ll get your bags,” Dylan offered, bending to lift the two suitcases. Cookie tried not to notice the way his muscles bulged as he hoisted the luggage—or the way Hayley was admiring the same thing.
“Thank you so much,” Hayley told all three of them, but she finished by directing her famous smile at Dylan alone. “It’s just like old times,” she told him, leaning into him with far too much familiarity for Cookie’s liking. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she continued as Dylan led the way back up the stairs, Hayley following right behind. “It means the world to me.”
“You know I’m always here for you,” Dylan assured her, his words carrying clearly back down the stairs.
“Aw, they’re so cute together, don’t you think?” Rain asked, peering after them. Then she glanced over at Cookie and the sappy smile vanished from her face. “I mean, as friends, of course,” she added hastily. “It’s so cute that they’re such old friends. And nothing but friends. Obviously.”
Oh, obviously, Cookie thought unhappily. Old friends who hug, and snuggle and ogle each other. And who were clearly ‘a lot more than that’ at one point—and could be again, especially if Hayley’s admiring glances were any indication. And, gee, what kind of man would want someone like Hayley Holloway, who was tall and gorgeous, and sweet and talented, and rich and famous?
Considering how Cookie had worshipped Hayley when she’d been younger, it was amazing just how much she hated the fact that her former idol was here right now, in their inn. With Dylan. Who still wasn’t wearing a shirt. Yeah, this day just got better and better.
3
Two hours later, Dylan still hadn’t come back down.
“What the hell are they doing up there?” Cookie groused, then immediately held up a hand. “No,” she warned, stopping Rain before a single sound could emerge from her open mouth. “I most definitely do not want an answer to that question.”
“Um …” It was obviously killing her mother not to start listing possibilities judging by the deepening purple hue of Rain’s face, but evidently Cookie’s expression was enough for her to keep her thoughts to herself. For a few seconds, anyway.
“Well, I know one thing they’re not doing,” her mother offered brightly, the words spilling forth like water from a burst dam. “I mean, we’re not hearing bedsprings, right? So at least there’s that.” She frowned. “Though I suppose, if they were really quiet about it…”
“Agghhh!” Cookie jammed both hands over her ears and fled out to the front porch, leaving her mother’s unhelpful images behind as best she could. Once she’d escaped to the outdoors and uncovered her ears, it took Cookie a moment to realize that
her phone was ringing.
It was a local number, but not one she recognized. “Hello?” she asked. Meanwhile, she was trying to think about who here on the island—aside from Dylan, who she was emphatically not thinking about right now—would have her number, much less want to call her.
“Cookie?” A man’s voice replied. Young, she’d guess—her age, possibly younger—with a hint of New Englander to the words but not the heavy accent of the local lobstermen. Hesitant, too, but eager. It was that combination that clued her in, and she sighed just a little before answering. Because this was exactly what she didn’t need right now.
But she just didn’t have it in her to be rude, especially when he’d sounded so excited to hear her. “Hi, Jared,” she said, feet thudding as she paced the porch and she spoke. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, uh, I just wanted to call and say hi, really,” the Hancock medical examiner replied. He sounded so happy she’d recognized his voice—and remembered his name—that it made Cookie want to punch something. And then she wondered if that was a normal reaction. Maybe this was why she never did well with relationships.
“Right. Hi,” she said. “How are you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m good—you know, keeping busy.” He paused a second. “I’ve started working out, trying to get in shape, stuff like that.” Jared Delgado wasn’t a bad-looking guy, really, provided you liked your men a little on the thin and geeky side.
Which Cookie did not. Unfortunately for Jared. But, “That’s great,” she told him anyway. “So this is just a social call?”
“Well … maybe not just,” he admitted. It was funny how, with most people, you could actually hear them trying to be sly over the phone. Like Jared right now. “I don’t suppose you know anything about this dead body that just came to me? Initials RD?”
For a second, Cookie considered denying it. She stopped to lean on the railing, the wood hard under her arms. Did she really want to get involved in another investigation? No, but she would if the local law decided to ignore it like that they had the last one. Besides, lying wouldn’t be fair to Jared—and she did want to know whatever he’d clearly called to tell her. “Yes, I’m the one who found the body,” she answered. She didn’t mention Dylan, both because she didn’t want to think about him right now, and because she suspected if she told Jared who she’d been out with—and why—he’d be a lot less likely to divulge anything.
“So it was you. Oh, wow.” The poor medical examiner sounded practically beside himself. “They told me a woman who was a local business owner called this in, so I sort of guessed, but, dang, you have rotten luck. Two in one month. What are the odds?”
“Yeah, not exactly the giftwrapped present a girl wants to find when she’s out exploring the islands,” Cookie said, swallowing a chuckle.
He cleared his throat and continued in a slightly nervous tone. “Anyway, I found something. Something … interesting.” And then he stopped talking.
Cookie waited. Nothing. She waited a little more. Still nothing. “What did you find?” she finally burst out. Patience had never been her strong suit.
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes when Jared replied, “Come on out and I’ll show you.”
“Can’t you just tell me?” she asked.
“I could,” he answered, “but where’s the fun in that?”
“Listen, Jared,” Cookie explained, “I’m not actually on this case or anything. If it even is a case. I’m not a cop or anything. I own an inn. I’m an innkeeper. That’s me. Not a detective. An innkeeper.”
“That didn’t stop you the last time,” Jared countered.
“He turned up in my backyard.” Every bone in her body was itching to dive into the investigation, but she was on Secret Seal Isle for a reason; to lay low. Asking questions about a possible homicide wasn’t in the plan.
“Well, this one wasn’t that much farther, and you said you’re the one who found him. Aren’t you at least curious to know what happened?”
Cookie cursed under her breath. Then she peeked in the front door and stole a glance toward the second floor, which was still remarkably, unnervingly quiet.
“Yeah, okay,” she answered finally. “I’ll be there soon as I can.” She hung up and went to go snag the keys for the little motor scooter sitting in her driveway. Rain, heaven help her, had just purchased it at a yard sale on the mainland a few days ago. It wasn’t anything pretty, or fancy, but it was perfect for tooling about the island or fetching a few groceries from the general store—or taking the ferry over to the mainland and then driving the few miles to the sheriff’s office to see the medical examiner.
At least this would help her keep her mind off Dylan and Hayley Holloway and whatever was going on between them right upstairs, Cookie thought as she seated herself on the scooter and strapped on her helmet.
Yeah, sure it would.
“Ah, there you are!” Jared exclaimed as cool air blasted toward Cookie when she pushed open the morgue doors an hour later. “I was starting to think you’d stiffed me.” He giggled at his own bad joke, and Cookie tried not to roll her eyes right in front of Jared. It was clear the young ME wasn’t used to having a live audience.
“Okay, yeah, I’m here,” Cookie confirmed. “What’ve you got?”
But Jared wasn’t about to be rushed. Hopping off his stool, he crossed the remaining space to where Cookie stood, took her right hand, and bent over to kiss it, all the while gazing up at her face. Oh, boy. His innocent infatuation had been kind of cute, like a wet-nosed puppy, but this was taking things just a little too far.
“You’re as lovely as ever,” he declared, straightening but not releasing her hand. “So glad I could entice you out.”
Cookie resisted the urge to yank her hand free from his cool grip. “Look, you said you had something to show me,” she reminded him. “Well? What is it?”
“So impatient,” Jared teased, managing to look both hurt and thrilled at the same time. “Fine, fine—business before pleasure.” He led her over to the wall of stainless steel doors taking up one end of the morgue, and metal clicked as he yanked back the lever on one door. Jared gave it a tug and out slid the long metal tray. A tray holding a draped body.
“I gather you and Mr. Dungworth have already met,” Jared said grandly. He straightened his shoulders, his height matching hers and grinned.
“We’re acquainted,” Cookie agreed dryly. “What’d you find?”
“Nothing, so far,” he answered. “Time of death was yesterday morning, somewhere between dawn and noon. No visible wounds except for the scratches on his face, and those didn’t kill him—they barely broke the skin. He wasn’t shot, stabbed, or beaten.” Jared held up a finger. “But, it’s possible he choked.”
“Yeah?” Despite herself, Cookie was intrigued and tugged the sheet back far enough to expose Dickie’s face. Then she squinted, trying to see past the rigor mortis that was clinging to the body. “I don’t see any signs of asphyxiation.”
“I didn’t either,” Jared agreed, beaming at her like a proud parent—or a TV detective about to make a big reveal. “But check out what he had wedged in his esophagus.” He reached for a jar sitting by Dickie’s feet. Cookie was familiar with them—they were used to gather evidence from dead bodies. More specifically, the airtight jars were used to collect bodily fluids and solids. Urine, feces, vomit, and whatever else the body was willing to give up. In this case, apparently a sealed plastic bag, the kind you’d use for your sandwich. This one, however, was about half full with what looked almost like a white powder.
“That was in his throat?” Cookie asked, eyeing the jar. “How far down?”
“Only an inch or two past his tonsils,” the gangly ME replied. “Which means he didn’t have a chance to swallow it completely—”
“—in which case, either he choked on it and it killed him,” Cookie agreed, “or he was trying to swallow it down when something else killed him.”
“Exactly!” Jared looked thrilled, thou
gh she hoped that was just because they were reaching the same conclusions and not because somebody had died with a plastic bag wedged in their throat.
“And the contents?” Cookie asked.
If possible, Jared’s smirk widened. “Exactly what you think it is. Cocaine. And enough of it that our Mr. Dungworth could’ve been charged with possession with intent to sell.”
Cookie considered that. Every state was different, she knew, in terms of the cutoff between mere possession and possession with intent to distribute. Here in Maine, it took at least fourteen grams of coke to hit the latter, though with crack it was only four grams. So half an ounce of cocaine was enough to put you away for drug trafficking. And yeah, she could see how the Ziploc in that jar might contain more than that.
The real question was, what had Dickie Dungworth been doing with that much coke? And why had he decided to swallow it? And was that what had killed him? “So you’re still not sure of cause of death,” she asked.
The ME shrugged. “Not for certain, no. I haven’t done the full autopsy yet. I just found that, and thought you’d want to know.”
Cookie frowned, though the expression wasn’t really directed at Jared. It was more that she was warring with herself. Because he was right. She did want to know. She wanted to know what had killed Dickie, and why, and if anybody else had been involved. Her inner FBI agent had come out to play. Was that because Hayley was at her inn right now, crying over her brother’s death? Or was it just because Cookie couldn’t leave well enough alone when it came to crimes or even possible crimes?
Was she creating mysteries to justify sticking her nose into other people’s business? After all, Jared hadn’t exactly had to twist her arm to get her down here. He’d called to tell her he’d found something about Dickie’s death, and she’d come running. That sounded an awful lot like someone obsessed with death, or at least with investigating strange deaths.
Except she was on extended leave from her job. She wasn’t supposed to be working any cases. Not if she wanted to stay under the radar of the DeMasis. The smart thing to do would be to walk away right now, to just grab her scooter and head back home. But Cookie knew she wouldn’t do that. Not as long as she had the option to stick around and poke into things instead.
