by Bree Baker
“Careers are important,” she said. “Time-consuming and often hard to balance with a personal life.”
It sounded like something she knew from experience. “Well, with moves like yours, you can always be an undercover bodyguard if au pair work gets too dull.”
Her smile dimmed before returning. “Meanwhile, no one will get anywhere near the Hays men on my watch.”
I laughed—because I didn’t doubt it.
A pair of rising voices caught my attention above the gentle din of afternoon chatter, and I immediately spotted the small commotion. Rose and Quinn were huddled around a laptop screen and vehemently disagreeing about something.
I eased past Denise. “I’ll be right back.”
I crossed the café quickly, eager for a look at the screen. They noticed my approach and paused the video. “Fancy meeting you here,” I said brightly. “Everything taste okay?” I nodded to the empty plates before them. “Ready for a little dessert? Maybe some refills on your teas?”
Quinn raised a palm. “No. Thank you. It was delicious, but I’m stuffed.”
Rose nodded. “Truly.”
I wasn’t sure if she was truly stuffed or my food was truly delicious, but I supposed one went well with the other and moved on. “How’s the filming coming along?” I asked, motioning to the paused laptop screen. “Are you getting everything you need? Staying on schedule? Anything I can do to help?”
Rose pursed her lips. “We’re okay. A little behind maybe, but that’s only because our original schedule was tight and didn’t allow for any of the things that have happened since we arrived. Mitzi, the crowds, the bee thing yesterday.”
I shivered at the mention of yesterday’s “bee thing.”
“Online activity has picked up,” Quinn said, motioning to the screen. “Bloggers and celebrity newscasters are creating a ton of negative publicity about the documentary. They want to know why we’re still taping instead of halting production out of respect for Mitzi’s death.”
“Bad publicity is an oxymoron,” Rose said through gritted teeth. It appeared as if it wasn’t the first time she’d explained this and also that she thought Quinn was a regular moron. “Publicity raises awareness, and that was our goal here all along,” she continued. “The only reason people are still hung up on Mitzi’s connection to our documentary is because someone is leaking pictures of her death. If it weren’t for the close-ups of her swollen face cropping up in every article on our film, the public would be throwing money at our project in support of Mitzi’s last stand. Instead, they’re using images of her death beside images of my face and making the whole thing seem scandalous. Stupid conspiracy theorists.”
“I’ve been looking for one of those,” I told Rose. “A blogger, theorist, and Mitzi superfan who calls himself the Canary. I saw him yesterday before the bee incident, but I haven’t been able to find him since. Do you know him?”
She looked to Quinn. “Is that the guy who wanted an exclusive from us about Mitzi’s last moments?”
Quinn wrinkled his nose in distaste. “That’s the one.”
Rose groaned. “That guy’s the worst. He’s the one creating most of the negative hype around us. I hate that guy. Someone should’ve thrown him in the bee box instead of Mitzi.”
I tried to control my expression, but my eyes widened anyway. The flippant remark was in severely poor taste, and I wasn’t sure where to go from there. I got out my phone and decided to switch gears. “One more question,” I said, buying time as I brought up Mary Grace’s new Facebook profile picture, an engagement photo of her and Vanders. I turned the screen to face Rose, then Quinn. “Do you recognize this couple?”
“Sure,” Rose said. “They welcomed us to Charm. Delivered a basket of local products to our rental and offered to help however they could.”
I quirked a brow. “They didn’t try to get you to fill out some kind of permits for filming or shoo you away?”
Rose frowned at me. “No, they were very nice.”
Quinn made a disgusted little noise, and I turned to him. “What?”
He shrugged. “They were very nice,” he used finger quotes around the last two words, “because they wanted something from us.”
“No, they didn’t.” Rose bristled. “They were utterly supportive. They even gave us vouchers for meals at local restaurants and offered us the use of their personal golf cart to haul around our equipment.”
“And they pitched themselves as a possible reality show,” Quinn pointed out. “That was all they really wanted. To schmooze you into making them stars, as if you have that kind of power.”
I gaped, unsure if I wanted to laugh or gag. “They pitched themselves as a reality show?”
Quinn’s mouth twisted, fighting a smile. “They wanted to call it The Charmed Life,” he said. “Real-life coverage of the gritty, sexy world of island politics. Told from the perspective of a husband-wife team running a small coastal town.”
“Ridiculous,” I said for a million reasons, most prominently because they weren’t married yet and they certainly weren’t running our town. Vanders was standing in as mayor until the election. Mary Grace was making desperate attempts to control her career because her home life was out of control. I knew. I’d visited her house once.
“I agree,” Rose said. “I’ve been in town long enough to know that if there’s another documentary worth making here, it would be on your family, not hers.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Talking to Clara and Fran is fascinating,” Rose continued. “Your family history is remarkable. Tracing your lineage back to the Salem witch trials is practically unheard-of today. And for those women to leave their home and travel all the way here, alone and unarmed, then to found this town? It’s unthinkable. It’s a movie waiting to happen. Add in all the related unwritten history and rumors of Swan curses, and it would be a guaranteed success. Don’t even get me started on Clara’s herbal remedies and world-class gardens, Fran running for office, or the sisters’ beekeeping…and your dramatic return last year, this amazing tea house, and the fact you solve local crimes.”
“I don’t solve crimes,” I said, grabbing onto the only thing I could.
“That’s not what the locals say,” Rose went on, her voice growing more dreamlike and airy with each word. “This town loves you, all of you Swan women. You’re like some kind of living island treasure.”
A few patrons leaned casually in our direction, clearly straining to catch every word.
“It all sounds more interesting than it is,” I promised. “And unwritten history is just really old gossip, to be honest. My aunts love it, but it’s more of a hobby than a science.”
“Then there’s this house,” Rose said with clear amazement. “Is it true it became available for the first time in decades right when you made your dramatic return, and the owner asked exactly the amount you were looking to pay? Completely cosmic. And this was your childhood dream house, right? Everyone on the island says the place is haunted, and your aunts say the woman it was built for, Magnolia Bane, was a second cousin of yours somehow.” Her bright-eyed gaze went contemplative. “From what I hear, that young woman was no luckier in love than the Swan women. Maybe your family curse isn’t limited to Swans.”
I tried to protest but only a strangled choking sound came out. I had to stop my aunts from repeating that story about the house being haunted. The whole idea was so crazy, I never knew what to say, and my silence was too often mistaken for agreement.
The wind chimes sounded and my gaze snapped up to meet Wyatt’s. He removed his hat and nodded at me on his way to the counter.
I closed my mouth with a little effort and politely walked away. Rose was on her own with dissecting my family’s alleged curses. I’d wasted too much time on that myself.
Wyatt slid onto a stool at the counter and said something to Denise that had he
r smiling widely, then tipping her head back in laughter.
She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes as I arrived at her side. “Sorry,” she said, attempting to right herself when another round of giggles struck.
“What did I miss?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she assured. “It’s so silly. Wyatt and I got to talking the other morning when you left us, and it’s so goofy. Never mind.”
I looked from her to him. His eyes twinkled with mischief. These two had inside jokes now? How long had I left them alone?
Denise laughed out loud again. “That’s what cheese said,” she whispered, walking away to check on the customers.
The café’s landline rang and I grabbed it, grateful for the distraction. “Thanks for calling Sun, Sand, and Tea,” I trilled. “Where the food is fantastic and the tea is even better,” I added, smiling against the receiver.
“Everly Swan?” a deep and familiar voice asked.
I spun my back to the café and stepped closer to the wall, then lowered my voice. “Canary?”
“Yes. Listen. I know what happened to Mitzi Calgon,” he said, sounding a bit out of breath. “I only need one more piece of evidence to prove it, then I want you to take it all to your detective friend.”
“Why don’t you do that?” I asked, skeptical and well aware my luck wasn’t this good.
“Can’t. I’m being followed. I have to act when I can.”
I considered the possibility he wasn’t a killer on the lam, but rather an amateur investigator who’d done a better job than me chasing clues. Now he was on the run from a killer trying to shut him up. The scenario seemed plausible enough, and if it was true, I could finally mark a suspect off my lengthy list. “How will you get the information to me?” I asked. He sure wasn’t coming to my place after dark under the pretense of “hiding from the killer.”
“Meet me at the lighthouse on the bay tonight. Ten o’clock.”
I swallowed a lump of fear and excitement. “Okay.” Grady wouldn’t be happy I’d made the plans, but I had a feeling he’d be thrilled to come along.
“Come alone,” the Canary said, “and don’t be late. I need to leave the island as soon as you have the information.”
“Okay,” I repeated. “I’ll be there. All alone.”
Silence stretched across the line until I suspected he’d hung up on me.
“Everly?” His softer, more desperate voice gripped my heart. Maybe he really was afraid and on the run. I’d been there too, and it was awful.
“Yes?”
“Can I trust you?” he asked, the words barely more than a whisper.
“Absolutely.”
Chapter Eighteen
I could barely concentrate the rest of the day. Either I’d agreed to meet with a man who knew the name of Mitzi’s killer, or I’d agreed to meet with Mitzi’s killer. The options were nerve-wracking. I jumped each time someone new entered the café, anytime the phone rang, and once when my blessed fitness bracelet demanded I BE MORE ACTIVE! If only stress and anxiety burned calories, I’d have to binge on chocolate malts and cheeseburgers just to stay alive.
Fortunately, I wouldn’t be alone tonight. I’d called Grady after filling Wyatt and Denise in on the situation, and Grady had agreed to come along.
I locked up at seven sharp, then went to change into something appropriate for a secret rendezvous with a potential killer or possible informant on the run. I decided on black yoga pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. The nights were still cool, and the wind off the bay would be strong tonight, according to local weather reports. I paired the outfit with comfy white sneakers and pulled my wild, wavy hair away from my face with a large elastic headband, then stopped to check myself out in the mirror. I looked like a plus-sized Tomb Raider. I zipped a light, hooded sweatshirt over the T-shirt and marched in place, wishing I liked cardio as much as I liked cheese.
I checked my window for signs of Grady’s truck, then met him on the porch when he arrived. He’d worn blue jeans and a heather gray T-shirt with cowboy boots. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed he wore the boots more often since he’d discovered my nearly debilitating weakness for cowboys.
“Hey,” he said in greeting, his gaze raking over my face. “You doing okay?”
“Better now,” I said sincerely, and he smiled.
I locked up, followed him to his truck, and waited while he opened my door. Riding in Grady’s truck was one of my favorite things. The cab was always warm and it smelled of his cologne, soap, and shampoo. There was sand on the floorboards and country music on the radio. The space was familiar and comfortable when I needed both, and today there were bubblegum wrappers and plastic horses in the cupholders—signs Denver had been there earlier. I especially loved that. The only thing more attractive on earth than Grady in a cowboy hat arresting bad guys was Grady holding Denver’s hand.
The driver’s door opened and Grady climbed smoothly behind the wheel. “Ready?”
I nodded, and he slipped the truck into gear.
We rode silently through Charm’s empty streets. Our town was a different place at this hour. Closed shops. Empty sidewalks. All put on hold for sunrise. Charmers were a morning people. A “greet the day with a smile” people. The sort who walked the beach or boardwalk before breakfast and accomplished more by lunch than most could before dinner.
I stretched an arm through the open window, flexing and curling my fingers around the brisk ocean air. Normally, I enjoyed moments like these. Starry skies and moonless nights. The gentle crash of endless waves. Tonight, however, it all seemed a little eerie. Foreboding even, as we made our way to the lighthouse.
Grady stole a peek at me as we rolled around the corner onto Bay Street from Middletown Road. “I’m glad you called me instead of meeting this guy on your own.”
“And I’m glad you agreed to come along,” I said diplomatically. Especially since I couldn’t be sure the Canary wasn’t trying to lure me there and kill me.
Grady gave a quiet chuckle. “You needed me tonight, Swan. Where else would I be?”
He turned down the gravel lane toward the lighthouse, then bounced slowly off the beaten path and parked in a grove of trees not meant for traffic “Before you go out there, I need to do something,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt and leaning in my direction until I couldn’t breathe. He extended an arm, then opened the glove box.
I heaved a sigh of relief and frustration. No big show of affection, then. Just whatever he kept in the glove box.
Grady straightened quickly, twisting to face me on the bench seat. “I want you to wear this,” he said, lifting a pair of strange-looking objects in my direction. “The microphone will let me hear everything that’s being said, and the earpiece will allow me to respond to you privately.” He leaned forward again, gaze locked with mine. “May I?”
I nodded, then held my breath as he brushed my hair back and slipped the small earpiece into my ear. The rough pads of his fingers grazed the sensitive lobe. The scent of him warmed and enticed me. A memory of our perfect Christmas kiss came back with such force I was sure I could still feel it on my lips. I shivered an exhale, and his eyebrows rose.
Next, he raised the small microphone to my jacket collar and waited for me to nod my acceptance.
“Go ahead,” I said breathlessly.
He fixed his attention on my jacket, then pinched the device securely into place, nearly invisible on the breast of my coat. His Adam’s apple sank and rose as he backed away.
He tucked an earpiece into his own ear. “Say something.”
“You smell nice,” I said, my first thought falling out of my mouth without proper vetting. “Sorry.” Heat rushed into my cheeks, and Grady smiled.
“You too,” he said, his voice coming in a strange stereo, amplified through my earpiece from the microphone pressed to his collar.
“Onc
e I hear this guy’s confession, I’m moving in,” he said.
“Okay,” I nodded, accepting the words as gospel.
“If I think for a second that you’re in danger, I’m moving in sooner, so be expecting that. And if he hurts you in any way…” Grady’s jaw locked and his chest expanded. “He’ll need a medic before the mug shot.”
Heat flooded my chest at the sound of his words.
In that moment, I saw a flicker of the soldier beneath my cowboy. I’d noticed it before and when I asked, Grady said he had to work sometimes to keep that side of him buried. He said he was proud of the things he’d helped accomplish for our country, but he hadn’t always liked doing them or liked himself afterward. I’d thanked him for his service and left it at that. I hadn’t known that guy, but I knew I liked this one very much. The small-town detective who bought me lemonade at street fairs and padded barefoot through the surf with his son on his shoulders. Drove me to meet cuckoo bloggers for information at midnight. And loved my family’s lemon cake.
“I trust you,” I whispered.
Ferocity and pride flashed in his eyes. “Good. You won’t see me, but I’ll have you in my sights at all times. If you get nervous or need me, tug your earlobe and I’ll be there.”
I reached for the door, anxiety bunching and gripping my muscles.
“Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?” he whispered as I scanned the deep shadows around the lighthouse base. “I can figure this out without his input and without putting you in danger.”
“I know,” I said, “but I don’t think he’s dangerous, and I know he’s scared.” Hopefully, I was right.
“Telling you someone’s after him could have been his way of disarming you and getting you to agree to this,” Grady said. “Women meeting men they barely know in secluded locations at midnight doesn’t typically end well.”
