by Penny Plume
“I am?”
“You are. So get cleaned up and meet me at the bar.”
“Yeah,” Cabo said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Okay.”
Jenna started down the hallway, then stopped and turned. “Hey, Cabo.”
“Yeah?”
“Go team.”
9
McTavish was still looking out the window—or at the window—when Jenna walked down the steps into the receiving room. It looked like he hadn’t moved an inch since she last saw him.
Jenna got to the polished bar and wasn’t sure what to do next. She didn’t want to disturb him if he needed to be left alone, but she also wanted to make sure he was okay. And there was something she needed…
She cleared her throat.
Nothing.
There was a bowl of mixed nuts halfway down the bar. She leaned toward it and caught the lip with her fingertips, making the bowl lift slightly and clatter back down.
Not a twitch. Was he meditating? There was something about not disturbing people when they were meditating, it would mess them up…no, that was sleepwalking. He wasn’t sleepwalking, was he?
Jenna scoured her inner library for something, anything to tip her off about the etiquette in a situation like this.
She landed on: “Hey McTavish. What’s up?”
Well played.
“Evening miss.” He didn’t turn from the window. “Can I get you something? A lozenge for your throat, perhaps?”
“No, please. I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
“Me? Oh, I’m fine. And you?” His Scottish lilt seemed to be increased by mourning. “I heard about your trip down the hill this morning—a bit faster than you’d planned, no? I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Yeah, that was…unplanned, thanks. But seriously, are you okay? Can I get you something? Some tea, coffee? Something out of one of these bottles? You’ll have to tell me which one. I just see clear and brown. Oh, champagne, I know that one. Probably not that, huh?”
Good lord, shut up.
McTavish finally turned, a sad smile on his face. “I’ve not had a drink in twenty-two years, and I think Mr. Kavanaugh would be disappointed if I broke that streak today.”
“Ah, sorry.”
“No need to apologize. But I must admit, knowing about the mess upstairs and not being able to address it has me a tad thirsty for the stuff.”
Jenna winced. “You’ve seen the library?”
“Indeed. Distasteful. Mr. Cabo was a bit ruffled when he discovered Mr. Kavanaugh’s state, and I rushed up to see what was going on. It was not what I expected to find. Quite a shock, really. And where is Mr. Cabo now?”
“He’s getting cleaned up and packing.”
“He’s leaving?”
“Well,” Jenna said, “I don’t think he’s comfortable staying here if he’s, you know. No longer employed.”
“Ah.”
“But you’re fine!” Jenna blurted. “I mean, this is your home. I didn’t mean to say you should leave too because your employer is dead.”
McTavish smiled again. “Actually, the Kavanaugh family is my employer, so with young Bart still here, I’m sure my services will be very much required.”
“Working for Bart must be…” Jenna had already shown she had no tact, and wasn’t sure why she bothered trying now. “…interesting.”
This time McTavish actually chuckled. “Aye, the McTavish and Kavanaugh clans have a long history of interesting relationships. Their family used to work for mine, you know.”
“What?”
“It’s true. Before we all left the homeland. But that’s for another day, I think. Are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you? A coffee? I recall you were a fan of the sugar.”
“No, please,” Jenna said, then held up her phone. “But if you don’t mind, I have some files here that Olson might want printed out. I think I saw a printer in Mr. Kavanaugh’s den this morning—would it be terribly rude to use it for two minutes?”
“Not at all. Can I assist in any way?”
“Ummm, I don’t think so. Do I need any passwords?”
McTavish considered this, his eyes drifting up for a moment. “Not for what you’re doing, no. I’ll be right here if you require anything at all.”
He turned back to the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
Jenna eased away, hoping no one else showed up before she was done.
Kavanaugh’s den looked exactly as Jenna had seen it earlier that day. The Lost Haven Resort model still stood, a hideous reminder that the project would continue despite Kavanaugh’s death.
Jenna scowled at it as she headed toward the massive desk, and a bright pink Post-It note caught her eye. It was stuck to the foam board that made the front of the shop known only as “Bakery.”
“What the…”
Jenna stepped next to the model and leaned in. The note had a sloppy, tilted name scrawled on it: Happy Mouth Creations YES!
“Oh, Lawrence,” Jenna whispered. He must have slapped it on when he’d come in to answer questions for Olson and Kavanaugh.
Jenna shook her head and went behind the desk. The computer and printer were on a smaller desk set to the left of the main, aircraft-carrier sized piece, at a 90-degree angle so Kavanaugh could swivel that way and immediately attack the keyboard.
The desk drawers begged for snooping—no, not snooping, investigating for justice and history—but she didn’t know how much time she had. It was true that Olson might need printed copies of the photos she’d taken in the secret library, but he technically hadn’t asked for them…
She was anticipating the need.
Oh, that sounded good.
After all, Kavanaugh had kept the documents behind a secret door in his personal library for some reason. A locked room within a room no one else would likely go—certainly not Bart or Sherri, no offense to them.
There had to be a reason why.
Jenna wondered if Bart even knew about the secret library, and she grimaced at the thought of his reaction when Olson told him about it. Then she imagined his reaction if he walked in and found her sitting in his dead dad’s chair.
Lamenting the historical information that would remain hidden in Kavanaugh’s desk drawers, she got to work.
The photos on Jenna’s phone were connected to her cloud account, and when she fired up the browser, logged in, and checked the photos app her recent shots from the library were already there.
She selected all of them and clicked Download.
Then, because it was right there and seemed ridiculous not to, she checked the browser history. Maybe Kavanaugh had been conducting internet searches for “How to murder café owners” or “Best places to hide evidence.”
The history was completely empty.
“Poop.”
Jenna clicked through the settings and found the browser was set to clear the history and cookies upon every shutdown.
Well played, Kavanaugh.
She thought about poking around the rest of the computer, but something McTavish had said made her hesitate. When she’d asked if she needed a password, he had said, “Not for what you’re doing, no.”
So some stuff on here required a password, and she didn’t want to trip any alarms that would shut it all down and bring McTavish, Bart, Cabo, and the fire department to shame her for being nosy.
She checked the download status: 15%
Slightly irked about the passwords, she let the internet elves do their work and clicked one of the images that focused on the area of the map showing what must have been Sanctuary’s Main Street. There were more structures—it looked like six compared to the five of Lost Haven—and each was labeled in that gorgeous, handwritten cursive.
Jenna zoomed in.
The building that had been where her Welcome Shoppe was now, or the remains of which were scattered in the sand beneath it, had been named…The Welcome Shoppe.
Hmm. Not exactly thrilling, but intere
sting.
Next door, where Winkle’s Fine Chocolates & Sweets now stood, was Winkle’s Funeral Parlor & Mortuary.
Oh, now we’re talking, Jenna thought. Belma is going to lose her mind.
It struck her as a bit odd that the funeral parlor was one door down from the town’s souvenir and gift shop, but death had been more common back then. Maybe it was strictly for convenience?
Hello and welcome to Sanctuary! Oh, your husband just died? Goodness me. Right this way…And here’s a bumper sticker for your carriage.
Jenna checked the download again: 65% done.
Come on elves!
She glanced at the den door, expecting to see Olson or Bart or—oh man—Garrett. That would throw a serious monkey wrench into what she was trying to do.
But the doorway was empty.
Jenna went back to the photos. She was very curious about the rest of Sanctuary’s Main Street, but she wanted the big picture while she had access to the computer. She selected an image that showed the entire desktop in Kavanaugh’s secret library, including the smooth stones that held the map’s corners in place.
The map took up nearly the entire surface, with a strip of polished desktop a few inches wide all around the parchment. It gave the elegant impression that the map was framed, except for a scrap of stark white paper peeking out in the upper right corner from beneath the map and stone. Jenna glanced at it, saw the Kavanaugh letterhead and modern fonts obviously created by a computer printer, and moved on. She wasn’t interested in anything made within the last century.
With the whole map on display, Jenna let her eyes wander. Maybe something would jump out and wave, shouting, “Here! I’m the reason Ingrid and Kavanaugh were murdered!”
She checked the marina in the southwestern corner, which seemed to be clogged with shipping docks and timber lots. That drew her east of town to the lumber mills, three of them at the time the map was drawn, labeled Kavanaugh Lumber Co., Gallagher Timber, and Mink Lumber Mill No. 4.
The “No. 4” piqued her curiosity—where were the other three?—but nothing among the mills screamed murderous intent.
She checked the download: 90%
Curse the amazing resolution and large file size of these photos!
Deep breath and back to the map.
Horizon House was there, perched atop the highest point, and the cartographer had made sure to give the impression that the hill overlooking the town was more like a mountain. There were no imposter mansions clustered along the access road, but three large patches of land with structures scattered throughout were labeled Welbourne Estate, Mink Estate, and Gallagher’s Retreat.
The founding families, establishing their territory.
Jenna followed the road down the hill and into downtown Sanctuary, drawn back to Main Street.
And then she saw it.
Bodies.
Bodies, everywhere.
She’d been so zoomed-in on Main Street the first time, she hadn’t noticed them. The little markers looked like trees to her, anyway. Jenna fell back in the desk chair, blinked a few times, then stood up. The windows along the south wall of Kavanaugh’s den overlooked the entire town, and she could see the lights of the Main Street shops.
But she didn’t care about those.
Her eyes moved to the right, landing across the street, on Lilac Park. The gorgeous, landscaped paths, ponds, and gathering spots where children played, lovers met, and performances were applauded.
And, according to the map, where hundreds of people were buried in The Sanctuary Cemetery.
Jenna rushed back to the computer screen.
Had she read that right?
She zoomed in, zoomed out, panned left and right.
Yep.
It was still there.
The vast majority of the large swath of land between the Main Street businesses and the marina belonged to The Sanctuary Cemetery. A small parcel along the north edge was labeled “Mink Park,” but even on the fading, static map Jenna got the impression that the dead were steadily overtaking the entire plot.
The small markers were meant to be gravestones, not trees, and in parenthesis beneath “The Sanctuary Cemetery” the cartographer had written: “317 Residents as of 1896.”
Jenna’s stomach twisted as she thought of all the times she’d walked through the park with Garrett, stopping here and there for a little more than holding hands. They had been standing above decomposing coffins filled with sand and skeletons. Skulls were grinning up at them while they wandered the paths.
She shuddered and looked away from the map.
It was awful.
And absolutely thrilling.
She’d solved it.
The download indicator at the bottom of the computer screen showed 100%, all done.
Jenna wondered: How long has that been there?
She found the downloaded ZIP file, extracted it to a folder, and sent all of the photos to the printer. The machine instantly kicked on and started working. It was a compact laser printer, surprisingly quiet, and the first photo came sliding out within seconds.
Jenna thought about what to do next.
She could take this to Olson, tell him Kavanaugh knew that he’d be building his new resort pretty much on top of a graveyard, and if the rest of Lost Haven knew about it the project would be scrapped immediately. The state would get involved, it would be a disaster for Kavanaugh.
So…what? He’d murdered Ingrid because she found out about it too, then killed himself so he wouldn’t tell anyone?
Seemed unlikely.
Jenna blew a slow breath through puffed cheeks. She knew about the cemetery, but still didn’t know who killed Ingrid and Kavanaugh. Whoever it was, they could still frame one of her Main Street friends, or Cabo—possibly even her--and get away with the murders.
Or worse: kill again.
She couldn’t risk telling anyone. Not even Olson. Not yet.
Not until she knew for sure who the killer was.
If she trusted the wrong person…
Jenna deleted the photo files, then the ZIP file, then emptied them from the trash bin, which was as empty as Kavanaugh’s browser history. Say what you would about the man, but he kept a tidy computer.
She was on the verge of shutting the machine down when she glanced at the stack of printed map photos. She turned the top sheet face-down, and though faint, the colors still bled through.
“Hm.”
Working quickly, she went back to her cloud account, found what she was looking for, and printed off five more pages.
That should do it.
Now it was just a matter of getting the maps from the den to the Jeep.
Easy.
Jenna walked out of the den and scanned the receiving room.
McTavish was gone and the receiving room was empty.
She’d pulled it off.
She was climbing the three steps to the hallway and foyer, celebrating her natural and cultivated international spy skills, when Bart rose from behind the bar.
“What were you doing in there?” he said.
Jenna yelled, “Hey! Bart!” and skipped four feet to the right, away from the bar, but managed to clutch the map sheets tighter rather than flinging them into the air.
“Oh, did I startle you? Sorry.” He was either very tired or very medicated, his words falling out mechanically.
Or, Jenna scolded herself, he was in shock because his father was just brutally murdered in his home.
Bart straightened all the way up and set a dark, heavy bottle on the polished wood. It didn’t have a label, looked handmade, and the red wax seal around the mouth looked like it may have been created by Spanish monks. He set a thick tumbler next to it, stared at the glass for a moment, then pulled another from beneath the bar.
“Come have a drink with me,” he said.
“Oh, I would, but I—”
“Dad and I were going to drink this when the resort opened. It was brought over by our ancestors when they l
eft the homeland, and dad said the resort was the final step in establishing our new home.”
Jenna glanced around her at the magnificence of Horizon House. There was no point in trying to relate. She took another step toward the door, but man…the dead father, the saved bottle, drinking alone…maybe she couldn’t relate, but she wasn’t a monster.
“A toast, then,” she said, and walked down the steps. She set the map sheets on the floor and dropped her wallet, keys, and phone on top, trying to be overly dismissive about all of it: Just some crap I carry all the time, nothing to see here buddy.
Bart found a paring knife behind the bar and cut the wax seal, taking a moment to close his eyes and smell the first notes escaping from the bottle after, what, centuries?
“What does it smell like?” Jenna asked.
Bart tipped the bottle toward her. She sniffed: Tangy pear, sweet grape, maybe, and underneath it a fiery current of paint thinner.
She blinked back tears and said, “Yum,” because she wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Yes, powerful.” He poured two alarmingly deep glasses and nudged one toward her. The liquid was thick and crystal clear, and though Jenna knew zero facts about alcohol, this seemed ominous.
“Do you want to drink this with Sherri, maybe? Or McTavish?”
“McTavish? We don’t drink with the help, Jenna. And if Sherri drank this right now she’d probably have a stroke. She’s so full of Xanax I’ll have to wake her up for the funeral, whenever that is. When she heard about dad, how it happened right here…she just kinda shut down. Even Mr. Wolfie picked up on it. He’s upstairs on the bed with her, guarding her while she sleeps.”
“I’m so sorry Bart. It’s just terrible.”
Bart looked into his glass of jet fuel for a long moment. Seeing, remembering, regretting, wishing…
He lifted the glass. Jenna did the same, the rising fumes making her squint.
“To my dad,” he said.
“To your dad,” Jenna echoed. Knowing she’d chicken out if she hesitated at all, she took a large sip and immediately regretted it. The liquid burned her mouth, sinuses, throat, lungs, and stomach, and she hadn’t even swallowed it yet. She held it in her mouth, waiting for the lights to go out as she went completely and eternally blind.
