Knocking on Death's Door

by Lucy Quinn

  “Rain will be so disappointed.”

  “No truer words,” Cookie said, raising her coffee cup. “To Rain and the gossip mill. May the phone tree be just as busy as ever.”

  He touched his cup to hers and echoed, “To Rain and her beautiful daughter.”

  Cookie felt her heart melt right then and there. And if it hadn’t been for the case staring her in the face, she might’ve opted to skip breakfast and head back to the bedroom. Instead, she took a bite of her still warm waffle then proceeded to get Dylan up to speed on their new suspects.

  The crisp morning air made Cookie wish she’d thought to bring a sweater. She wrapped her arms around herself as she and Dylan strolled down Main Street, heading for the island’s one and only gym.

  “Here.” Dylan handed her his hoodie.

  “I can’t take this. You’ll be cold,” she said even as she slid the sweatshirt over her head. His familiar spicy scent washed over her, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Right,” he said, chuckling as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in close. “I’ll be just fine as long as you stick close to me.”

  “I see. It’s just a ploy to get me in your clutches.” She smiled up at him, enjoying every moment of the morning. The skies were clear blue, and the sun was shining. In a few hours, the temperature would warm up and it’d be the perfect late spring day.

  “Something like that.”

  They continued down the hill until they came to the gym that was almost directly across the street from the Clip, Dip, and Rip. Cookie briefly thought about popping in to say hi to Peaches, but then thought better of it when she saw old man Peters duck inside. Hadn’t Rain said something about him embracing the manscaping? The thought of the guy getting his junk waxed sent a shudder through her and she quickened her pace toward the gym.

  “Big Guy?” Dylan said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Huh?” Cookie asked, confused.

  “Look at the jacked-up truck’s license plate. It says Big Guy.”

  Cookie spotted a black truck with giant wheels that lifted the truck up so far, she was sure even she’d have trouble climbing into the cab, and she was a tall woman, coming in at just about five foot nine. “Someone’s compensating for something,” Cookie quipped.

  Dylan snorted. “Ten bucks says it’s good ole Keith.”

  “Do I look like a fool?” Cookie asked, giving him a mock look of annoyance. “I’m not gonna just throw my money away. I’d put the odds on Keith at ten to one.”

  “Fair enough.” Grinning, Dylan opened the door for her, and the pair of them walked under the peeling sign reading Kelly’s Gym to go inside. The air was stale with an odor that was a nauseating mix of mildew, sweat, and lavender.

  “Oh, no.” Cookie held a finger under her nose and shook her head. “It’s amazing all these people don’t seem to notice.” She waved a hand at the half dozen people lifting free weights. The gym looked like something straight out of the 1980s. There was a boxing ring, punching bags, a free weight station, and a couple of treadmills. A huge flat screen TV was on the wall playing a daily talk show on the local station. An older woman with gray hair, bright yellow tights, and a glitter tank top was utilizing the one on the left while a woman who was in full makeup, long fake nails, and stylish yoga pants was on the right.

  Cookie turned to the pretty young brunette filing her nails while manning the front desk. “Hello, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for Keith Cumberland.”

  The brunette rolled her eyes, arched her back and stretched out her neck as if she was posing for a photo shoot while she picked up the phone and hit a button. After a moment, she said, “Keith, there’s someone here to see you.”

  His unintelligible response could be heard halfway across the gym. Too bad Cookie couldn’t actually make out the jumble of words.

  “I don’t know,” the receptionist snapped. “You don’t pay me enough to care.”

  Dylan and Cookie exchanged a curious glance.

  “No,” she said, scanning Cookie and Dylan with a judgmental gaze. “It’s that lady who owns the inn and the handyman. The one who’s always taking his shirt off.”

  Cookie couldn’t stifle her laugh as Dylan frowned. She said, “She’s right you know. That first day you were working at the inn, you were strutting around half naked, showing off your abs.”

  “I don’t strut,” Dylan said. “Jeez, can’t a man take off his shirt when he’s hot?”

  Cookie shook her head, noticing he didn’t deny he’d been showing off. And she supposed if a man had a body as fit as Dylan’s at his age, then he had every right.

  “He’ll be here in a minute,” the brunette said, moving on to another nail.

  “Thank you,” Cookie said and tugged Dylan into the gym as she spotted a tall blond guy with a build that would rival Arnold Schwarzenegger’s during his bodybuilding days descending a spiral staircase from the office that overlooked the main floor.

  Dylan and Cookie moved toward him, but before they met him the man stopped near the gray-haired woman who’d been on the treadmill only moments earlier. She was now sitting on exercise ball, trying to grab the free weights at her feet.

  “Here you go, Mrs. V.” The man reached down and picked up the small weights. He then waited for her to hold her hands up before handing them to her. “Keep your back straight,” he said. “Tighten your core.” When she lowered the weights and then lifted them again he gave her praise. “There you go. Much better. Need me to keep spotting you?”

  The woman blew out a breath and shook her head. “I’ve got it from here. Thanks, Keith. What would we do without you keeping an eye on us?”

  “I appreciate the compliment, Mrs. V., but I’m just doing my job.” He grinned at her, clearly enjoying her admiration.

  “Just like when you mow my lawn?” She asked. “It’s not your job to do that you know. I wish you’d let me pay you.”

  Keith shook his head. “No way. I already told you mowing lawns is therapeutic for me.” He struck a cavalier pose. “Makes me think I have a chance with the ladies.”

  Mrs. V. frowned. “What?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen Can’t Buy Me Love? The younger version of your McDreamy from that hospital show mows lawns for extra cash, and that’s how he ends up landing the girl.” He tipped his invisible hat and winked at her.

  “Oh, you,” she said and giggled like a lovesick school girl.

  He patted her on the shoulder. “See you after work, Mrs. V. It’s going to be a perfect day for riding the lawn mower.”

  Her gaze stayed glued to Keith’s bare torso as the man made his way toward Cookie and Dylan. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Had a client to tend to. What can I do for you folks?”

  Cookie frowned. Keith’s interaction with Mrs. V. certainly didn’t paint him in the kind of light one would expect for a killer, but Dylan didn’t seem to have the same hesitation because he said, “That’s a pretty sweet ride out front. Big Guy? Is that you?”

  Keith chuckled. “It’s kind of a nickname.” His expression suddenly changed, and he looked like he was going to cry. “Wait. You didn’t hit my truck, did you?”

  Cookie refrained from rolling her eyes when she realized that his truck was probably his baby and said, “No. Definitely not.”

  Keith let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

  “That must have set you back a few bucks,” Dylan said. “Those aftermarket lights, mudders, and brush bar must have been pricey.”

  Keith shrugged. “I’ve got a pretty nice side business as a personal trainer. Some high-profile clients too.” He leaned in and whispered, “Hayley Holloway for one, and she’s hooked me up with some others I shouldn’t name. Client confidentiality and all.”

  “Pays that well, huh?” Dylan asked. Hayley was a famous rock star, and an old friend of Dylan’s, who had spent some time on the island.

  Keith crossed his arms in a way that pushed his massive biceps out a bit furthe
r, and he gave Cookie and Dylan a smug look. “So well that I’m thinking about moving off the island to pursue it full time.”

  Cookie noticed that Dylan had stepped a little closer to her as if he was guarding his territory. Considering she’d had a few jealous moments of her own when it came to him, his slight possessiveness made her smile, and she said, “Good for you, Keith.” Then she switched gears. “The gym participated in the Miss Dumpy parade, right?”

  “Sure did.” He scowled for a moment, and Cookie thought she might have heard a few gears turn before he said, “So that’s what you’re here about. That dead guy, right?”

  “Nothing gets by this one,” Dylan said under his breath to Cookie before he spoke to Keith. “Yes. We’re investigating the murder.”

  “It’s a shame the parade had to stop so soon,” Keith said. “I’ve still got a bunch of T-shirts left over.” He grinned as he puffed out his chest and waved his hand across it. “They say Recycle This. Get it?”

  Cookie chuckled as Dylan gave Keith a half-hearted smile. She said, “Clever.”

  “You want one?” Keith asked her with sincerity. Then he scanned her body and let his gaze linger at her ample chest. “Considering your— well—ah.” He grinned at Cookie. “I think I know what size you’d need.”

  Dylan let out a small noise that resembled a growl, and Cookie interjected before anything could come of it. “No, thanks. But that’s sweet of you to offer. Just one more question. Were you at the dump supply sweep to get items for your float?”

  “Sure was.” Keith frowned as a light bulb seemed to go off over his head. “Hey. You don’t think I killed that guy, do you? I didn’t see anything and don’t know anything about that.” His tone became indignant. “There were a lot of people there besides me that day.”

  “There were,” Cookie said. “And it’s our job to question every single one until we find the killer.”

  Keith nodded as his expression relaxed. “Of course. Sure. Well, let me know if I can help in any way.”

  “Don’t worry, Big Guy,” Dylan said as he grabbed Cookie’s arm and began to lead her out of the gym. “We’ve got it.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Cookie called out to Keith over her shoulder as Dylan escorted her toward the door. Once they were outside, Cookie said, “Dylan Creed, I think you’re jealous.”

  “Of that meathead? Pshaw. He probably can’t even read.”

  You can always teach them in the morning, Cookie thought and then snickered when she realized it was something Rain would have said. And probably already had. Her mother was definitely rubbing off on her.

  “What so funny?” Dylan asked.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking that Keith doesn’t seem the type. You?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t get the killer vibe either.”

  Cookie laughed. “Killer vibe? What? Now you’re psychic? Have you been drinking Winter’s special tea?”

  Dylan’s eyes twinkled with humor as he said, “Perception. Intuition. Those things shouldn’t be ignored, Detective James. It’s how I knew we’d end up together.”

  “Well, you got that part right, but let’s stick to the facts, shall we? I say we call Hayley Holloway to check out Keith’s personal training story before we rule him out.”

  Dylan pulled his phone out of his pocket. “It just so happens I have her number.” He tapped his cell and grinned at Cookie as he held it up to his ear. Dylan had worked as a bodyguard for the famous singer at one point, and Cookie had exhibited a jealous behavior or two because of it. But she smiled, unflustered. She knew Hayley wasn’t a threat to what she and Dylan had.

  “Voicemail,” Dylan said to Cookie after a few moments, and then he said into the phone, “Hey Hayley, Dylan Creed here. I have a few questions for you about your personal trainer. Do you or have you ever employed someone by the name of Keith Cumberland? Please give me a call back when you have a chance. Thanks.”

  Dylan put his phone back in his pocket and swiped his hands together as if he were brushing off dirt. “One questionable resident down. Two to go. Where next?”

  7

  “Lunch?” Cookie suggested to Dylan, her stomach grumbling at the thought of a lobster roll, chips, and a soda from the Salty Dog.

  “Already?” Dylan asked as they walked along the sidewalk on Main Street.

  “What? It’s almost—” she glanced at her phone for the time to see it was only ten am. “Lunch time is a frame of mind. By the time we get our food it will be close enough.”

  Dylan laughed, and the deep timbre of the sound warmed Cookie to the core. She had enjoyed her time as Hunter O’Neil’s partner investigating crimes, and they’d had a close relationship that made things easy. But it had been built over years of time together, so it never ceased to amaze Cookie how quickly she and Dylan had gotten to the same place.

  A car whooshed by, and Pam Stevens, a local schoolteacher, waved at Cookie and Dylan when she saw them. Dylan asked, “Do you know how much I love your healthy appetite? I bet I can guess where you want to go.”

  “There aren’t exactly a lot of options.”

  “Sure there are,” quipped Dylan. “My place. Your place. And I bet Mrs. V. would make me a sandwich if I took off my shirt and mowed her yard. But you might be out of luck.” He shrugged as laughter danced in his eyes.

  Cookie slapped at his arm. “Remind me why I made you my partner again?”

  Dylan leaned down and whispered a dirty bedroom thought that left more than her ears burning when he was done. She cleared her throat and croaked out. “We’ve got work to do, Mr. Creed. But first, lunch.” When he raised his eyebrows at her she exclaimed, “At the Salty Dog!”

  Dylan laughed again, and fortunately for Cookie they were steps away from the restaurant’s entrance. When they got inside, they grabbed a table. Since they were the only ones in the place, they were waited on right away. Once food was before them and Cookie took a big bite of her lobster roll, she was able to focus on the case again. She said, “Let’s check out Alex Balboni next.”

  “Wouldn’t it make sense to talk to Johnny since he washes dishes here?” Dylan asked around a mouthful of food.

  “It would if he were here, but he’s not.” Cookie said before she took a sip of her soda.

  “How would you know that? Are you the psychic now?”

  “No. I use common sense.” Cookie waved a chip in the air. “Look around. We’re the only customers, and any smart restaurant owner doesn’t bring in staff like a dishwasher until there are actually dishes to be washed. I bet he comes in at the beginning of the lunch rush.”

  “Okay, smarty pants,” Dylan said. “What time is that?”

  “One o’clock. But Alex works as a bookkeeper for a bar and that means she’s there during typical business hours when banks and suppliers are open.”

  Dylan’s eyes widened as he mocked her. “Wow. You know your stuff.”

  Cookie winked at Dylan. “Yup. Stick with me, kid.”

  He leaned in close and kissed the tip of her nose. “I plan to.”

  After they finished their lunch and paid the bill, they made their way out of the Salty Dog and down the street to the Tipsy Seagull. The interior of the bar was a stark contrast to the cheerful atmosphere of the Salty Dog. Where the restaurant had worn wooden tables that were painted red, white walls and appetizing aromas, the Tipsy Seagull was dark with odors that made one crinkle their nose, and the greeting was ‘Whadya want?’ instead of ‘How can I help you?’

  Cookie and Dylan didn’t even get that. A gaunt-looking man with a three-day-old beard merely grunted at them when they stepped up to the bar. Dylan asked, “Do you know where we can find Alex Balboni?

  The man squinted at them before he grabbed a cup and spit brown liquid into it. Cookie’s stomach turned as he said. “Ayup.”

  Dylan sighed. “Coon. We’re not tourists looking for the Maine experience here. Just tell us where Alex’s office is.”

  “Up the stairs,” he said without a hin
t of a Maine accent. Cookie glanced at Dylan in question. Once they were out of earshot and near the stairs that led to the offices, Cookie asked, “Friend of yours?”

  “Nope,” Dylan said. “Masshole transplant who has taken crotchety barkeep to an extreme. The guy went to Bates College, thought he was the next Stephen King, and tried to get a writing career off the ground. He’s still tending bar forty years later.”

  “I’d be grumpy too if I had to work here. This place is depressing as hell,” Cookie said as their feet thumped up the old wooden steps to the second floor.

  They stepped through a doorway to carpeting and what appeared to be a reception area with a desk. Behind it were two closed doors with darkened brass knobs, making Cookie think the old building may have once been a home. One of the doors opened, and a man with a large girth stepped out. He was wearing a faded blue polo shirt over loose jeans, and recognition covered his face as he said, “Dylan!”

  “Bernie,” said Dylan in reply. “How’re they bitin’?”

  “Can’t complain. Still trying to land that big tuna, don’tcha know.”

  “That’s the dream. We’d all be rich if it were easy.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. If you’re lookin’ for Alex, she’s getting her hair done. Was she going to leave you a check?” He chuckled as he opened the top drawer of the desk. “She tells me stuff, but I never listen.” He frowned at the contents of the drawer.

  “No, sir,” Cookie said. “We were hoping to talk to her.”

  The man stuck out a beefy hand toward Cookie. “Bernie Flanders, and you’re one of the new innkeepers. Am I right?”

  “I am,” Cookie said with a smile as she returned his firm grip. “Cookie James. I run the inn with my mother, Rain.”

  “Rain Forest,” he chuckled. “I know all about her. She—” He waved his hand as if he thought better of what he was about to say to Rain’s daughter. “She’s something else.” He let out a big laugh that was so infectious it made Cookie smile even though she was a bit uneasy about what Bernie hadn’t said.