NC-17

by Larissa Reinhart

Oliver laid a hand on my bare shoulder. “Of course. I’m all about helping people. Besides, he did disappear outside my health facility. I have every right to know what happened to him.”

  Conscious of my nakedness beneath the thin blanket — not to mention Oliver’s powerful hand lightly caressing my shoulder — I stilled. “I don’t know about your rights, but fine. You can help. Show me the old buildings and the greenhouse.”

  “Now?” Oliver’s eyes appeared unfocused. His finger stroked my arm.

  I jerked upright, pulling the blanket with me. Slid off the table and from under his hand. “Yep. I’ve wasted enough time. I’m a professional.”

  Considering my state of undress, professional seemed a poor choice of words.

  * * *

  “The greenhouse,” I said, ticking off my tour of Wellspring buildings. “The old chicken coop. And any other buildings that seem mysterious.”

  “Sure, babe.” Oliver led me from the spa and into the back plaza. “Whatever you want.”

  The thrill of a possible bust spiraled through me, something I used to channel for Julia Pinkerton episodes. She constantly broke into condemned buildings and secret labs, exposing criminals and charlatans.

  However, Oliver’s nonchalant attitude tempered my mood. He acted like Wellspring was just an over-the-top health spa.

  Which it probably was.

  “You can see everything,” said Oliver. “Except the basement.”

  I stopped. “Why?”

  “That’s where we keep Bigfoot.” He winked. “And we don’t have a basement.”

  Chuckling, he rested a hand on my back and detoured me toward another path. We passed the meditation maze and the flower garden I’d destroyed.

  “I found a boot in that garden,” I told Oliver.

  “Really? That’s weird.”

  I frowned, wanting him to be more curious. Or defensive. Something. He was so agreeable. That’s what people always liked about Oliver.

  What I used to like about Oliver.

  Nash was disagreeable. Downright ornery. But always curious.

  Not great attributes in a boss, I told myself. Except for the curiosity. For an investigator, that was a plus.

  I needed to stop thinking about pluses. My imagination had invented too many pluses that had gotten me into this state of unrequited passion in the first place.

  “You’re quiet,” said Oliver. “Those kids are getting to you, aren’t they? Are you a Bigfoot believer now, too?”

  “I’m not sure what I believe.” I looked beyond the Wellspring property to the mountain slope. I had convinced myself Crispin had followed us and for some reason — probably my snooping — he’d attacked us. But I’d sensed someone or something else on the mountain, too.

  Oliver followed my gaze. “I wish you hadn’t gone into the woods. It’s dangerous at night. I sent one of our security personnel to search the forest to see if they could figure out what happened to you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said but felt secretly pleased.

  “It’s not safe.” Oliver placed a hand on my elbow and stopped our walk. “The police were here. Someone was killed on the peak. Nothing to do with us, but there is a hundred-year-old trail leading from the Wellspring property. The old spa used the path for their guests.”

  “I heard about it.” I was surprised Oliver knew. Ian hadn’t told me the police had been to Wellspring, but it made sense. “My friend in the police department told me someone had been shot.”

  “All the more reason for you and the kids to stay off the mountain trails. I should’ve warned you last night, but I didn’t want to scare them.”

  He turned us off the path to a covered pergola used for golf cart parking. We hopped in a cart and gently motored through the plaza to the planted hillocks in back. A path had been concealed between hills. We emerged behind the hills before a gate in the fence that separated the back of the property. Oliver pulled out his phone and tapped in a code. The gate swung open and we drove through.

  “What about the buildings back here?” I said as we passed the old cowshed. “And this empty land. Why is the garden so far away?”

  “We’re still restoring. It’s a lot of acreage.” He parked the golf cart near the garden fence. Used his phone to electronically unlock the gate. We entered and strolled through the tomatoes, passed the drying stalks of corn and beans.

  “And what about those?” I pointed at the piled bags. “That’s an extraordinary amount of fertilizer.”

  “Maizie, it’s a garden. I’ve never seen you so suspicious.” He laughed. “I can’t wait for you to see what we’re doing.”

  Oliver continued to the greenhouse, once again using his phone to unlock the door. The air was hot and moist and smelled fresh and dewy. Glass walls rose to the pitched glass roof. Rows of potted trees with big glossy leaves lined the walls. Smaller plants shelved in hydroponic trays were grouped in the center.

  “That’s our herb garden.” Oliver pointed at the shelves of hydroponic trays. “All the typical kinds you find in vitamin shops and for cooking.”

  “No pot?” I scanned the room, looking for something to bust.

  “Sweetheart, weed is illegal in Georgia,” said Oliver. “Aren’t drug tests part of your probation?”

  “Not for me.” I gave him the side-eye. “I’m just checking. What are those trees?”

  “Kratom. They’re subtropical.”

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t kratom illegal?”

  “Not in Georgia.” Oliver grabbed my hands. “This is why I’m so excited, Maizie. We’re going to treat patients at Wellspring. Dr. Sakda’s overseeing the process into making it into a real pain remedy people can use.”

  I gazed at Oliver, recognizing the gleam in his eyes and fervor in his voice. He had the same reaction when he operated his Beverly Hills community center and spoke of helping people there. Throughout Oliver’s childhood, his grandmother had been in and out of the hospital, dealing with incurable pain. Unfortunately, her daughter — Oliver’s mother — bore the brunt of her misery when her pain meds didn’t work. His dad, a philanthropist and amateur bodybuilder, also dealt with chronic pain.

  I understood why he felt so strongly about holistic health treatments. I sort of understood why he gave Oxy to the elderly. He didn’t need the money. It made them feel better.

  I didn’t grasp why he thought he could get away with it. Or why he ignored the dangers of addiction. Especially since his father struggled with it.

  Or why he risked our relationship for it.

  Everyone had their blind spots, I supposed. But maybe Wellspring was the answer for him. “I’m happy for you. Really.” I slipped my hands from his and patted his arm.

  “It’s a dream come true. Especially now that you’re here to share it with me.”

  * * *

  Happy for Oliver but disappointed in my non-bust, I kept my thoughts to myself as we drove back to the plaza. I directed us toward the condemned chicken coop with the new roof and “extra exhaust stacks,” as Fred had noted. We parked the golf cart and left the path to walk into the roped-off area before the old building.

  “And this is where we do our experiments,” Oliver said in his best Frankenstein voice. Followed by an evil laugh. He sobered. “We don’t want guests in here because they could contaminate our work. That’s why we’ve kept the condemned signs.”

  I had a feeling I would get no busts today.

  Using his phone, he unlocked the door to the lab. We stepped inside, onto a smooth concrete floor in a long, open room. It smelled pungent, musty, and slightly floral at the same time. The outside stone walls were drywall inside and fitted with shelving. Heat lamps hung from the ceiling. Work tables held computer equipment, beakers, boilers, microscopes, and test tubes. A giant machine whirred in one corner. A big glass-fronted fridge took up another wall.

  Explaining the need for extra electrical boxes and smokestacks. It was a secret laboratory. But the only surgery being done was on plant
s.

  Sitting at a work table near a window, Dr. Sakda looked up from her computer. She pushed her glasses to the top of her head and glared at us. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Giving Maizie a tour,” said Oliver. “Go on with your work, we won’t interrupt.”

  “Making more juice blends?” I grinned, then caught her look and held up a hand. “I know. You’re a molecular scientist.”

  “Ethnobotanist. I’m examining the cell structure of a plant in order to reproduce its chief characteristics chemically.”

  “Very good.” My Downton Abbey voice was back. I gazed up at Oliver, giving him a “help me not to say anything stupid” look.

  He placed a hand on my elbow, then took me on a quick trip around the room. We looked at the food dehydrator where herbs dried. A grinder for pulverizing. And a capsule filling machine where the powdered plants were compressed into pills. Plain brown capsules.

  Identical to the ones Crispin had.

  “Are those for sale?” I asked. “What are they?”

  “The kratom supplement. The nutritionist and the doctors give them to their guests. Totally homeopathic.”

  “But not for sale outside Wellspring?”

  “I wish.” He sighed. “If we could get FDA approval, I think we could do a lot of good. For now, we don’t make them for the retail market.”

  I turned to Dr. Sakda. “What do they do?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Helps with pain. Anxiety. The usual.”

  Oliver grinned. “See what good we’re doing here, babe?”

  “But why the extreme fencing?” I said to Oliver as we left the building. “And drastic security precautions? I saw the gun cabinet. Are you sure you’re not growing drugs? Many start out as plants you know.”

  “Babe, it’s not like we have a poppy farm. Why are you so worried?” He wrapped an arm around my waist. “Wellspring is awesome.”

  Why was I so worried?

  Chandler. Missing security footage. The mysterious Everett Lawson prodding me with a gun. Crispin had a box of Wellspring pills. Pretty sure he wasn’t a guest. And I’d been walking along the path with Oliver’s arm around my waist.

  I’d almost forgotten he was the enemy. The ruiner of my life. Part one.

  Craptastic.

  I wriggled out from under his arm. “You can help me find Chandler, but let's keep this professional, shall we?” I wished I had done a period piece. I would have rocked the accent.

  “Of course.”

  “I want to speak to Everett Lawson. I’ve been unable to find him, and he’s not listed as a caretaker or gardener. No one seems to know him.”

  “That’s weird. Are you sure he wasn’t a guest?” Oliver rubbed his lip, then pulled out his phone.

  “Definitely not a guest. And can you ask security what happened to that missing security footage?”

  He nodded.

  “One more thing, can I have one of those supplements? I’m curious about them.”

  Oliver stilled his typing. “You probably shouldn’t take them. Not if you’re on probation.”

  “Why?”

  “You know.” He winked. “Herbs can throw off drug test results. Like poppyseed muffins.”

  “You’re sure they’re not drugs? Oliver, you got in trouble for this before.”

  He shoved his phone in his pocket and took my hands. “Babe. Those were prescription medications that I made accessible to the elderly. Medications that they needed, but whatever. I learned that lesson the hard way. The stuff we grow here is natural remedies. Homeopathic. Like the spa waters. You know what one of our main garden crops is? Arnica. Mountain daisy. Used in first aid and in sports medicine. We also grow chamomile, St. John’s wort, and windflower.”

  “Why would those brown pills make me fail my drug test?”

  “I don’t know if they would make you fail. Dr. Sakda is the better one to ask, but the chemicals in that plant mimic other pain relievers. I’m just trying to help you. I don’t want to ever cause you trouble again.” He kissed my knuckles. “Maizie, you know how much I love you.”

  Too little, too late, said my head. But my heart thumped like it was jamming to Gangsta Rap. The gaping wound left by my unrequited Nash love ached to be filled.

  Stupid heart.

  Thirty-One

  #Bambioozled #FreeFalling

  I’d find another way to get the brown capsule. Unfortunately, the pill I’d stolen from Crispin had been taken when Bigfoot mugged me. If Crispin had the same kind of pills, he’d gotten them illegally. Maybe taken them from Wellspring. It could be a lead. And my only link between Chandler and Wellspring, other than Bigfoot.

  If his brother’s love of herbal supplements could be considered a link.

  I really did need more sleep.

  If only I could talk to Nash about this. Now that he was conscious, he was much harder to approach. Namely, because I was humiliated by my man-crush. And Jolene probably hung in his room, helping him with his recovery. With her evil temptress powers.

  And their shared history as husband and wife.

  Where had she been when he was unconscious? Unless she’d been the one who kept moving Steve…during real visitor hours.

  Why would she not visit her ex-husband when she thought he might die? Jolene would have regretted the way she treated Nash while he was alive and gone to make amends. Take him back and make it up to him. Like by becoming real partners again. In Nash Security Solutions. And in life.

  No way would she keep me on as an apprentice.

  Craptastic.

  I worked so hard to save a business that would get me fired anyway.

  Instead of seeing Dr. Trident, I used the house phone to call Daddy. A girl needs her daddy when her heart was broken. Although that wasn’t the reason for my call. I was just in no mood to ride a mountain bike.

  I also needed to get away from the Wellspring Center before Oliver found me again and sweet-talked me into something greater than a spa date. I couldn’t waste any more time. Despite the fact that Oliver wanted to help me, he wanted to spend a lot of time holding hands and hugging.

  Sneaking into a dark corner of Wellspring’s lobby, I checked my to-do list while I waited for Daddy. Flyers. Jolene’s clients. Talk Giulio down from the breakup. Interview Everett Lawson. Check in with Gladys. Report to the teens.

  I crossed off “watch videos with Oliver” and “find new salon” (guilty, but not too sadly as I was now Olaplexed). Added “steal brown pill from Wellspring” and “look up Wellspring CCTV’s system to learn about deleted feed.” Then wrote “sneak into hospital and check on Nash” in tiny letters. Scribbled it out. And wrote it again.

  At the bellow of my name, I looked up from my to-do list and turned to the Center’s front doors. A giant stood in the doorway wearing a camo sports coat, handmade ten-thousand dollar boots, and Wranglers. His long beard once retained the same color as my Olaplexed locks. Now he looked like a colossus Santa.

  “Daddy,” I called, running to him.

  He hugged me, then pulled me off his giant frame. “Have you gotten in with these yo-yo’s? This place is the talk of the town. California hippies have taken over the old chicken farm.”

  He glanced around. “Although it does look like they’ve done a nice job in restoring the old place.”

  “Yes, they’ve done a lovely job with the historic preservation.” I pushed him out the door before Oliver heard him from his office. He’d want to apologize to Daddy. That’s all I needed. Daddy had strong (negative) feelings about Oliver. It was better not to tell Daddy that Oliver now resided in Black Pine.

  A big not.

  In the parking lot, Daddy turned a slow circle, searching for Lucky. “What’s wrong with your bike this time?”

  “Missing its key. It’s down the mountain on a path leading into the forest. I rode a mountain bike here.”

  “Did you now? Good for you.” He mansplained the benefits of hard labor and physical effort while we retrieved M
ara’s bike and walked it to his King Ranch truck.

  I refrained from rolling my eyes about twenty times.

  We drove down the mountain while I relaxed in his leather seats, enjoyed his air conditioning, and relished the lack of helmet I needed for the ride.

  “Your sister’s in a hell of a lot of trouble,” said Daddy. “You know she’s been setting traps out back? She’s been using candy bars as bait. Caught one of the dogs. And another one’s orange for some damn reason.”

  “Remi’s a little obsessed with Bigfoot,” I said, avoiding the orange comment.

  “Well, that obsession needs to stop. She knows dogs shouldn’t have chocolate. The poor thing was sicker than all get out. Had to take him to the vet.”

  “Oh no.” Guilt stabbed at me. “I didn’t pay attention when she asked what Bigfoot ate.”

  “Remi’s in trouble for lying. Said she didn’t put out the chocolate.”

  “Oh,” I said faintly. I’d been doing so much lying lately, I feared it’d rubbed off on little Remi. I really needed to do a better job in big sister-ing. “What can I do?”

  “It’d be a big help if you could help dismantle her dang traps before another dang dog gets caught.”

  “I’ll add it to my list.” Recognizing the teens’ logging trailhead, I called out for Daddy to stop. He pulled over, then asked me how I lost my keys.

  I lied and said my backpack had been robbed. I couldn’t stop with the lying. Now I understood the whole slippery slope thing.

  But explanations were never easy with Daddy. Particularly when I couldn’t tell him that the loss of my backpack resulted from a rock and stick attack. He’d do his own Bigfoot hunt with his Remington Sendero. That’s all the police needed with a shooter on the loose.

  “Girl, someone who didn’t know you would take you for stupid,” said Daddy. “What kind of fool leaves their backpack with their bike on the side of a road? And for mercy’s sake, look at the state of your bike.”

  Daddy hefted the bike upright and walked it to his truck. “What are you doing to this poor thing? Fuel line was cut, now this?”