by Destiny Ford
“A couple?” I asked, trying to keep the surprised tone out of my voice. Who could eat that many cookies?
“I ate a lot of them. I shouldn’t have, but I did. They made me so happy, I didn’t even keep track of how many I’d had. Before I knew it, I was up in a hot air balloon. It was glorious.”
The people involved in the traffic accidents his unauthorized balloon flying had caused probably didn’t think so.
I thanked Fred for his help and hung up to call the other judges. Ryan Miles had gone to the hospital after having an anxiety attack, and another judge had also felt fatigued, but not bad enough to seek treatment. The last judge wasn’t affected. He must have eaten less than everyone else.
An idea had been percolating in my head ever since I found out Opie was one of the cookie judges. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about the other night at Annie’s and what I couldn’t remember afterwards. There was only one other time in my life that I’d had a memory lapse—and subsequent amorous reaction—like that: when I’d tried marijuana in college. I’d apparently propositioned my roommate’s life-size cut-out of Henry Cavill—which I’d also done completely sober when she wasn’t around; Henry was hard to resist—and then passed out on my bed.
I knew pot affected everyone differently, but I’d decided right then never to try pot again because I didn’t like being that out of control. I should have put two-and-two together earlier, but I hadn’t smoked anything, and certainly didn’t think I’d been drugged with something like pot in my food. But the theory was starting to make sense. I opened my notebook and wrote down a list of things supporting my theory.
The entire town had gone bat-crap crazy over the dumb treats. I’d eaten them like there was a sugar shortage, even after admitting that my mom’s cookies were far better. And a lot of the strange things happening around town could be attributed to side effects of pot use. Plus, Ringo, the super sniffer dog that had been scent trained to find drugs with K9 dogs hated the Saints and Sinners Cookies even more than most dogs hated vacuums. I felt like that discovery alone was a huge point in my pot cookie theory.
I decided I needed to find out more information about the cookies, what was in them, and the company that made them.
I started with a search for Saints and Sinners Cookies, and pulled up their website. The site listed all of the cookies they offered with mouth-watering pictures and descriptions, and the option to order the cookies online. The About Us page showed a happy couple wearing matching aprons, and a story about how the cookie recipe had been passed down for generations, going as far back as the pioneers. That was quite a family cookie legacy.
When I’d first been made aware of the cookie fervor at the fair a week and half ago, I’d called Saints and Sinners to talk to them. I’d tried two other times since, and still hadn’t gotten an answer. I decided to try one more time. I got the voice mail and left a message—again. After some research online, I found out Saints and Sinners was actually owned by a company called Makhai, LLC. But the information trail stopped there.
The name was strange, and I’d heard it somewhere before. I did a quick Google search that jogged my memory. The Makhai were two-headed spirits of battle from Greek mythology. Interesting choice for a company name. I wondered who Makhai, LLC was doing cookie battle with—other than my mom.
I sent an email to the private investigator we had on contract, and asked him to check into Makhai, LLC. I copied Spence on it, and blew out a breath. I still had no idea why someone would be putting pot in cookies and trying to get an entire town high. It didn’t make sense.
It had to be someone trying to prove a point. But what?
I stretched my arms over my head, and moved my neck from side to side, a pop sounding with each tilt. I didn’t know the answer yet, and staying in the office after such a long day wasn’t going to help me think. I packed up my stuff and drove home.
I decided to take advantage of the beautiful, early September night, to weed my flower beds in the back yard. I rented the home, and could only afford it because this was small town Utah where rent was just a little bit more than my cell phone bill. My landlady was awesome, and my neighbors were fantastic.
I pulled on my gloves and started weeding, letting my mind wander into quiet oblivion. I really enjoyed working in my yard. I loved the sense of accomplishment that came from a project that let me see the results of my hard work. Before and after shots were my favorite parts of home improvement shows.
I was straining to unearth a horrible weed the size of a tree, fighting it while I cursed up a storm. It would probably get me in trouble with the Ladies if they heard, but I felt like swearing made every hard job easier—there just hadn’t been a study on it yet to confirm my theory—and I needed all the help I could get for the weed tree.
“Looks like you could use some help.”
I snapped my head up. Hawke was standing behind me, and every part of my body knew it. I hadn’t seen him since the hot air balloon crash when he said he was going out of town for a while for work. My eyes moved over him. He was wearing black cargo pants, black heavy-duty boots, and a grey t-shirt that clung to his muscles like water—or a horny woman named Kate. My pulse jumped just from his proximity—and he was still five feet away.
He walked over to the lightly stained wood patio table and put a paper bag on top of it next to a bottle of wine. “What’s that?” I asked, standing up and brushing dirt off of my knees.
“Dinner.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That was nice of you.”
He gave me his heart-stopping smile—which would have been comforting if people hadn’t been having pot induced heart attacks lately. I went inside to clean up and came back out with silverware and glasses.
Hawke took the lids off the take out boxes and handed me one. It was a manicotti smothered in a deep red sauce—my favorite kind of sauce. Tomato, but thick, pureed tomato with savory flavors, not chunks of the fruit that tasted way more like a vegetable. He opened another box and handed me a golden breadstick dusted with spices. It smelled fantastic. I took a bite and it was even better than it smelled.
“This is amazing! Where did you get it?”
“A little Italian place.” He uncorked the wine, a rich, dark red filling the glasses. Then he handed me a glass.
We didn’t have this kind of food in Branson, though Hawke had made me an amazing Italian dinner at his house recently that I still thought about and lusted after. It had almost gotten him laid right on his kitchen table—and anywhere else he wanted. If it wasn’t for the take out boxes and bags, I would have thought he’d made this meal, too. “What Italian place?” I wanted to know so I could go there myself.
“A place in Salt Lake.”
“Salt Lake?” I was a bit dumbfounded. The food was still warm. Salt Lake City is two hours from Branson. “Did you warm the food up in the microwave before you got here or something?”
He took a sip of his wine. “I fly fast.”
I blinked. “You fly?” That confirmed it: Hawke really was Superman.
He nodded.
I made an obvious observation. “Since I don’t see your superhero cape, I guess this means you have a plane, too?”
He grinned. “The cape’s at the cleaner.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I took another bite of food. “So do you keep your plane in your garage? Because I’ve never noticed it in the driveway.”
He shook his head. “No, I store them at airports. I have more than one.”
I managed to keep my mouth from falling open. Sheesh. There was a lot I didn’t know about Hawke. “So you’re back from your adventure—that you took in a plane I didn’t even know you owned or could pilot—is anyone dead?”
His full lips slid into a slow smile. “I’m a private person, Kitty Kate. I’ve let you in more than any other person I can remember, especially considering we’ve only known each other for a few months. That’s a huge compliment to you. It will take me time, but I’ll get comfortable
sharing more. I promise.”
That really was a compliment. I imagined it wasn’t easy for someone like Hawke, who lived his life in shadows, to open up. I tipped my glass toward him. “I look forward to that happening.” I took another drink. “How was your trip?”
“Good. Uneventful, so that’s always nice.”
“I imagine.”
“What’s been happening around here?”
I snorted as I ate my delicious dinner. “A lot of strange stuff, actually. The sugar factory caught fire from a sugar dust explosion, then they found a body in the wreckage. They’re still identifying the person. Opie Vargis’s heart attack at the parade wasn’t what it seemed and he actually had THC in his system that caused it, but no one could figure out how the THC got there. My mom hallucinated that mice were attacking my dad’s Mustang and she drove it into a pond. An ambitious farmer tried to wrestle a deer, and weird accidents in the past few weeks have gone up significantly. The entire town is obsessed with some cookies, but I think they’re actually spiked with pot. Oh, and there was an incident with modest clothing being Photoshopped onto girls in the senior pictures. I got blamed for starting a tank top trend.” I didn’t add that I’d also tried to have sex with Drake. One, it wasn’t Hawke’s business, and two, Hawke might have been off committing murder, or at best, assault, so I thought it prudent not to mention my strange horny streak.
Hawke narrowed his eyes. “That’s a lot. Maybe we should take it one thing at a time.”
I understood how he must be feeling because it was usually how I dealt with my mom. I frowned, not liking that connection. I lifted a shoulder and motioned for him to go on.
“Sugar dust is explosive, and it would be easy for someone to get caught inside if something ignited the dust,” he said, pausing to remember my list. “Heart attacks happen all the time, though the THC is strange unless Opie is lying about using it. Your mom’s situation is pretty par for the course, though the hallucinations are new. Deer wrestling seems out of the ordinary, but then again, this is Branson, so nothing is ever too strange. And the tank tops…that’s just classic Utah insanity.” He lifted his glass and took a drink of wine, processing all of the information. “But, taken all together, tank tops aside, I’d say you could be right that there might be more going on than just the random craziness that comes with living in Branson.”
“What do you mean?”
He took another drink. “Increased heart rate, hallucinations, paranoia, increased appetite, lack of focus and control of motor skills. Those are all symptoms of drug use. Marijuana, specifically. I think your hunch might be right.”
I dropped my fork and stared. “You think I’m right? Everyone in town is on drugs?” It was just a working theory, and one I hadn’t told to anyone except Hawke. I thought I was right about it too, but I didn’t think anyone would back me up without a lot more proof.
He shrugged. “Sure sounds like it. And it doesn’t seem like people know they’re taking it. I bet they’re getting it from food like you thought, so your cookie theory makes sense.”
No. People didn’t know they were taking it. And by people, I meant me too. Having Hawke confirm my suspicions that pot could have been responsible for my decision to try humping Drake made me feel infinitely better about the situation. At the time, I probably would have humped a cactus.
“I knew it was those damn Saints and Sinners Cookies!” I said, slapping my hand on the top of the table. “They were the most popular item at the fair. Did you even get a chance to go to the fair?”
“Not this year.”
I took another breadstick and broke it in half. “Well, there was a cookie craze. I’ll have to check, but I bet every person who’s been in an accident or incident lately had those cookies.”
Hawke nodded. “That sounds like logical reasoning.”
I tapped my fingers on the side of my wine glass. “Do you know someone who could do a drug test on the cookies, and get me the tests back fast?”
“How fast?”
“As fast as possible. I’d like to get a story out right away, and get those cookies off the shelves. It’s one thing if people are using pot willingly, but it’s another if they’re being tricked.”
He nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
Just “I’ll take care of it.” No information about where he’d get the cookies, how the test would be done, or who it would be done by. Just a promise that he’d make it happen. Regardless of what he did for his living, or his means of getting information, Hawke sure was handy to have around. “I’ll owe you.”
He arched a brow. “And I’ll collect.”
My stomach tightened and my mouth went dry at the thought of what his required form of payment would be. I wet my lips and swallowed so I wouldn’t sound like a frog with laryngitis. “I’m willing to pay.”
His eyes moved over me in an appreciative way. He reached over and hauled me against him. His arms enveloped me, and his chest broadened with the movement. His lips pressed hard against mine, his tongue wrapping around my own. His hands moved inside my shirt and my body shuddered against him. I thought we were going to have sex right in the middle of my weed pile when he let me go.
I sputtered a ridiculous protest in a language that even I didn’t know. The translation was something to the effect of “let’s get inside and get naked.”
Somehow, Hawke managed the translation. He must be fluent in nonsensical. “That will take some time, and I don’t have enough of it tonight.”
Well, that was disappointing. “Still have some people to kill?”
His lips stretched into a slow grin as he deftly changed the subject. “Aside from all of Branson getting accidentally high, has anything else interesting happened?”
My current state of mind, combined with Hawke’s question, made thoughts of my sexy lingerie and attempted Drake seduction flash through my mind. I tried to hide my wince. “Nope. Nothing. Boring as ever.”
“Your life is rarely boring, Kitty Kate. And that explanation sounded suspicious.”
It was hard to lie to a man who dealt in liars frequently, and was probably an expert himself.
I decided to go on the offense. “Drake did stop by.”
There was an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “That’s not a surprise.”
“He thinks everything about you is fake. Even your name.”
Hawke gave a sly smile. “I have a lot of aliases.”
“Is Ryker Hawkins one of them?”
“It’s the name I use professionally.”
“But is it your real name?” I asked.
His eyes held mine in an assessing gaze. I wasn’t sure what he was about to say next, but my stomach started fluttering and I felt a combination of panic and anticipation that he might decide to let me in a little more.
“I don’t know what’s real, and what’s not about you,” I said. “It’s hard to have a relationship with a ghost.”
“I don’t let a lot of people in, Kitty Kate. It’s the nature of my job. But you’ve made me have to start reconsidering some things.”
“I have?”
“You have.”
He got up and gathered his food, throwing it in the paper bag he’d brought our dinner in. He drank the last of his wine, then walked over, leaned down, and rested his hands on each of my chair’s armrests. He pushed his lips against mine and kissed me hard, the taste of wine still on his lips. He stepped back, grabbed his keys and started to walk away.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I yelled after him.
“Not this time,” he said over his shoulder. “But someday I will.”
“Have you heard anything about Makhai, LLC from the private investigator?” I asked Spence when he came back from an errand.
After Hawke’s concurrence with my theory, I told Spence about the pot-spiked cookie suspicions as soon as I got into the office that morning. Spence had immediately called the investigator and told him we needed the information on the compan
y as fast as possible.
Spence nodded in answer, and moved his mouse, opening something on his computer. The printer started to run. “I just got an email. Makhai, LLC is owned by a dummy corporation that’s owned by another dummy corporation, etc. Our investigator was able to follow the rabbit hole down until he came to an actual name.”
I sat down in the chair across from his desk. “Who?” I asked, curious. I had just as many questions about this as I’d had after the series finale of LOST. I hoped I’d be less frustrated with these answers, however.
“A guy named Isaac Handler.”
I’d never heard the name. “Who is he?”
“Our guy is still looking into that, but so far, we know he has ties to the Brigham Smith Group.”
I snorted a laugh. “Seriously? That’s the name?” Brigham and Smith were very recognizable names in Utah. They represented two of the most well-known prophets of the Mormon Church: Brigham Young and Joseph Smith. It didn’t seem like the organization had spent much time considering their name choice, however. “They realize their initials are B.S. Group?”
“I’m not sure they really thought that through.”
I’d heard of them, but couldn’t quite place them. “Why does Brigham Smith Group sound familiar?”
“Because they’re a group of lobbyists and investors. They have deep pockets.”
Lobbyists and investors? That was strange. “Were they investors in Makhai, LLC?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“What do you think their involvement is in this? Did Brigham Smith know Isaac Handler, and the company they’d invested in, were spiking cookies with pot?”
Spence shrugged. “No idea,” he said, dropping the papers he’d just printed on the desk in front of me. “There’s all the info our investigator found. You should look it over and see if anything jumps out at you.”
“Thanks,” I said, already scanning the paperwork on my way back to my desk.
“If you have questions, Drake would be a good person to ask. He’s had dealings with the Brigham Smith Group a lot.”
