by Skye Darrel
Asher lowers his eyes and holds my gaze.
“Did you show the police her letters?” I say.
“First thing when I came home. Chief Dunkel did his best, but he couldn’t help me. He sent the case to the County Sheriff’s Office. They dismissed it, said Priscilla’s letters were the ramblings of a jealous lover. That’s what they called my sister.”
Asher grits his teeth. “Two people in Salma’s Hope believe me. Hoyt Dunkel and Juno Newlin. Chief Dunkel has always been good police, and he hates that casino. Juno is practically family. She and my brother—they used to be close.”
“You can add a third person,” I say quietly.
Asher smiles. “Thank you, doll face.”
“Yeah, well, someone put a dead fox in my car.”
“I’ll introduce you to Chief Dunkel. You can tell him in person.”
Hoyt Dunkel, chief of police, greets us in the lobby. He’s a blocky man with thinning hair and a grandfatherly smile. We shake hands while Asher explains who I am. The chief makes me nervous. I think it’s the way he looks at me, like I’m an outsider bringing more trouble.
Maybe he’s right.
Dunkel takes us upstairs. The building is no more than a few offices and a single jail cell, presently unoccupied. The clerks and Dunkel’s only deputy have already left for the day.
“We’re a small force,” the chief says as we walk past rows of desks in a big room. The door to his office is at the end. “Salma’s Hope never needed much policing until that damn casino opened.”
He lets us into his office. Asher and I sit across from Dunkel while he enters my information into his computer for a report. Dunkel says he’ll visit Gatsby’s property and take some photos, dust for fingerprints.
I fidget in my seat. “That’s it?”
“Did you see anyone near your vehicle, Ms. Whipple? Notice anything?”
“No.”
“Then that’s it as far as the law is concerned,” Dunkel says.
“Resnik’s people did this,” Asher says.
The chief looks skeptical. “Has Verne met her before?
“No. But she’s been spending time at my house. Resnik keeps tabs on me. He would consider anyone close to me a threat. No doubt he wants her to leave town.”
I sit straighter, wondering what Asher means by close.
Chief Dunkel sees something in my face. A smile slips over his. “Are you two close?”
“We’re not,” I blurt out, because I don’t want to hear Asher’s answer. My nerves are frayed enough.
Dunkel shrugs. “It would be safer for you to leave,” he says wearily.
“I am not leaving Salma’s Hope. I came here to sell a house and I will sell that stupid house if it kills me.”
The chief’s expression goes from worried to amused to respectful, and I don’t look at Asher.
“Ms. Whipple, Resnik is a dangerous and cunning man. I’m afraid if you stay here, the law won’t be able to protect you.”
“I’ll protect her,” Asher says in a sudden growl that startles me. “She’s mine—my responsibility. He won’t touch a hair on her head.”
Another silence settles. I focus on a spot above Dunkel’s head, my hands grasping the armrests. The AC is too cold, but my face feels warm.
“Well,” Dunkel says, “I’ll put some heat on Resnik’s casino, let him know I’m watching.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
After we leave the station, I follow Asher to his Mustang, and we get in without speaking. He holds the wheel.
“Did you mean it?” I say.
“Mean what?”
“Protecting me.”
His head turns slowly until our eyes meet. “Yes.”
I bite my lip, and Asher grits his jaw.
“What did you think of me when we first met?” he says.
“Huh?”
He leans closer. “My lawn, the guns, the barbed wire on my picket fence. What did you think of me? Be honest.”
“I thought you were a psycho.”
Asher laughs long and hard.
“What’s so funny?”
“I have a confession to make,” he says with a guilty face. “It was an act. I’ve been pretending to be crazy for two years, to throw Resnik off-guard. Meanwhile I’ve been investigating his casino, searching for evidence. Sorry, Natalie. When you met me, I had to keep up appearances. Only Chief Dunkel and Juno know the truth.”
“All that shooting and messing up your lawn was an act?”
“Wasn’t all an act,” Asher says. “I’ve gone a bit feral living by myself.”
The image of him on that sofa stroking his thing pops into my head and it’s most unwelcome. “More than a bit.”
“Now you know. You’ll be in more danger for the knowing.”
“I’d rather know,” I say. “Did I mess up your act? Cleaning your lawn, did that . . .”
“It’s possible. Not your fault, doll face. I wasn’t making much progress pretending to be crazy anyway. And I enjoy your company.”
I look away. “You’re growing on me too.”
“Am I?”
“Don’t push it.”
He starts the engine. It’s getting dark.
“What’s your plan then?” I ask in a small voice.
“In Priscilla’s last letter, she mentioned a dancer who works in the casino’s VIP Lounge.”
“Dancer?”
“A stripper,” Asher says.
“The casino has a strip club?”
“More like a sex club. That’s what the VIP Lounge is. Resnik uses the Lounge to attract his wealthiest clientele. Pris was in contact with one of the dancers, but she only mentioned a stage name, the Swan. I’ve been trying to find the Swan’s real name and meet her. I believe this woman knows the truth of how my sister died. There’s no doubt Resnik killed her, but I need hard proof before I . . .”
“Before you what?” I’m afraid of the answer.
He stares at me in silence, his eyes like blue flint. “Before I finish him,” he says.
“I thought you wanted justice,” I whisper.
“Justice comes in different forms.”
“Asher, I don’t know—”
He kisses me, a lingering kiss that steals my breath.
I had this strange fear, the few times I imagined kissing him last week, that he would taste like ash, but he tastes warm and masculine.
“You sell that house,” Asher says. “Resnik is my burden.”
8
A Rose by Any Other Name
Natalie
I brush my teeth in the bathroom above Juno’s bar. It’s Saturday morning.
Four days left until my boss’s deadline to sell Gatsby’s house.
After how much tequila I downed last night, my head should be in pieces, but thankfully Juno made me chug a pitcher of water before she helped me limp upstairs.
I’ve been living like a zombie at Goldilocks for three days, ever since the meeting with Chief Dunkel. Asher insisted I stay with Juno and lie low while he adds some “perimeter defenses” to his house.
Whatever that means.
He visits Goldilocks every day after closing to check up on me.
Whatever.
I’m thinking too much about him as it is.
Okay—he trusted me enough to leave me a key to his house, and he kissed me, and I even enjoyed the kiss, but I’m an artsy girl, a free spirit—the fact I’m selling houses was dictated by economics, not nature.
Fill spirits need a stable anchor. A dependable man. Doctor, lawyer, or banker. A guy like Mr. Nelson the Pool Expert would do nicely.
Not some bad boy rebel planning revenge.
Yep.
Yes.
No?
I spit into the sink after my brain reluctantly agrees I’d rather die than end up with anyone like Nelson the Pool Expert.
No time to wash my hair, so I do a quick rinse in the shower and slip into a floral sundress, the only dress I brought
with me to Salma’s Hope. I’ve cycled through the rest of my luggage wardrobe three times already.
Last night, Asher called me and said we can finish his lawn.
I’m going to a shop on Main Street to pick out some flowers to plant under his windows. After that, his house should be picture ready. Never again will someone like Pool Expert give me a bad review.
Downstairs, I see a few customers eating breakfast.
The bar isn’t open yet, but Juno serves food all day. She’s standing at the register and nods approvingly. “You look fresh,” she says, affection in her voice.
“Just woke up.”
“Big day?”
I force a smile. “Kinda.”
Cora’s sitting at a table nearby, chewing gum as usual. She’s in her waitress outfit, black tights and a white blouse, and her face tells me she’s bored to death.
“Going somewhere, Nat?”
I sit across from her. “Flowers to finish up Asher’s lawn.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
Sometimes I forget how outspoken sixteen-year-olds can be. “It’s a professional relationship, Cora. I won’t get any buyers until we make his place perfect.”
“You don’t spend much time working on Gatsby’s house,” Cora says sweetly. “Isn’t that the one you’re trying to sell?”
“Mr. Gatsby’s Victorian is in excellent condition,” I say. A wild man doesn’t live in it. “Asher’s house has been the thorn in my side. That ends today.”
Cora nods thoughtfully. “Mind if I come along?”
Her mother brings us two plates of waffles and rich syrup. “Trying to get out of your job, Cora?”
“I don’t have a job, Mom. Jobs involve paychecks.”
“What do you call your allowance?”
“Not enough,” Cora says tartly.
“Keep her out of trouble?” Juno says to me.
“I’ll try.”
Fifteen minutes and some delicious waffles later, Cora and I climb into my Beetle parked in the back lot.
After Chief Dunkel photographed my car, he was kind enough to pay for a cleaning at this service garage in town. They fixed the damage to my gas door and got the blood out, but a rank smell still hangs on the air.
Cora wrinkles her nose. “Did something die in here?”
“Well . . .”
I trail off.
Juno Newlin knows all about the fox incident, but we decided to leave Cora out of the loop. Her mother wants Cora to feel safe in Salma’s Hope, and for the same reason, Juno never told Cora the truth about Priscilla Wade’s drowning.
“Nevermind,” the girl says, seeing my expression. “I know when adults don’t want me to know.”
“Oh, so I’m an adult now. I thought I looked sixteenish.”
Cora rolls her eyes better than I ever could.
The flower shop is five minutes away, on the corner of Main and Weir Street.
I know the town’s major roads well by now, and I try to avoid Weir Street, which takes you to the waterfront. Seeing the river has made me anxious ever since Asher told me about his sister.
Cora blows bubbles while I drive and asks me what it’s like to sell real estate.
I think for a while before speaking my truth. “It sucks.”
“Then why do it? Are there a lot of cute guys?”
“Uh, no.” I’ve met plenty of men in real estate dressed to the nines, but none of them I would call cute. I definitely would not call Asher Wade cute. He’s the opposite of cute.
Hansel is cute, yes he is.
“You do not need be thinking about cute guys,” I say quickly. “You should be focused on school. What do you want to do when you grow up?”
“Nat, if you’re trying to be a concerned auntie, it won’t work. You’re not the auntie type. You can play big sister if you want.” She glances at me. “Or just sister.”
I roll my eyes as we park in front of the flower shop.
A display window shows blossoms in full bloom. The place is called Salma’s Tears. Juno told me about the store last week, and I’ve always found the name bizarre.
“Strange thing to call a florist shop,” I mutter.
Cora turns to me with this face like she’s the mature one here. “That’s because you’re not well-versed in town history, Nat. Salma’s Tears is the name of a flower that only grows on the hills outside our town. It looks like a white rose.”
“A white rose?”
“Yes and they’re very pretty. Eli picked one for me a few weeks after we started dating. You have to pick them, you can’t buy them. It’s a tradition around here.”
“Is the name related to Salma’s Hope?”
Cora looks exasperated. “Tell you later, Nat. Let’s get some flowers.”
We spend an hour browsing the aisles, and Cora seems to be having a blast. I joke she must not get out much. In fact, the only time I’ve seen her having fun was that night at the ice cream parlor.
She turns to me with surprising seriousness. “I don’t get out much at all. Mom needs all the help she can get at Goldilocks. The place was started by my grandparents, and my mom got it after they passed. She could sell, I guess, but she won’t, not unless she has to. She spent her childhood there, it’s more than a restaurant or bar to Mom. It’s a piece of her life.” Cora sighs. “I don’t mind helping.”
I stare at her with a question on the tip of my tongue that’s been nagging me for days.
Cora holds up a pot of lavenders and meets my gaze. “What?”
“Where’s your dad?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“They who?”
“Asher and my mom.”
“No . . .”
She shrugs. “Eugene Wade is my dad.”
I almost bite my tongue off.
The girl smiles and puts down the pot, checking some roses next. “It’s all right, Natalie. His name isn’t even on my birth certificate. They had me when they were high school seniors, if you can believe it. And she talks to me about responsibility. Mom says Eugene loved me very much and held me in his arms, but I don’t remember any of that. I was seven when he died overseas.”
My eyes are fixed on Cora Newlin.
“Mom and Eugene never got married,” she goes on in a brittle voice. “They kept it all a big secret. After Mom got pregnant, he left for West Point to become an Army officer. I guess that was real important to him, more important than me. Mom didn’t even tell me until years after he died. Great timing.”
“Oh Cora, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine, Nat. I’m over it. Did I call Eugene my dad? Gotta rephrase, Eugene was a sperm donor. Asher knows all about it. That’s why he likes to fuss over me, he thinks he’s my uncle or something.”
“Well he kinda is,” I say carefully.
“I guess so, he can be sweet. But I liked Auntie Pris better. I loved hanging out with her before she . . . you know.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Time to change the subject.
I walk over to a row of white flowers wrapped in plastic. “Are these Salma’s Tears?”
“Oh my God Natalie, those are tulips. You won’t find Tears here, you have to pick them yourself. It’s tradition.”
“Strange tradition.”
Cora puts her hands on her hips and channels Juno in all her glory. “Are you calling my hometown strange?”
I stifle a smile. “Where did this tradition come from?”
“A love story,” she says.
“Do share.”
“Salma’s Hope was no more than a bunch of fields and woods way back in the day. Right before the Civil War, a family settled here next to the river. They had a daughter named Salma. One day, she went looking for berries in the hills and met a young man, and it was love at first sight.” Cora makes a face. “You believe in love at first sight, Nat?”
“I believe you should finish a story once you start it. I prefer happily ever after.”
H
er face darkens. “No happy endings here. The War broke out and Salma’s lover left to fight. Some versions of the story say he was drafted, others say he volunteered. North or South, depending on who you ask. No one knows, well, he probably didn’t even exist. It’s just a story.
“Anyway, he went to fight and promised Salma he would return in one year. But he never did. Salma waited for him, weeping, as girls in these stories will do. I bet she fainted a lot too. She wept and wept a lot, walking through the hills for three whole days where she’d met her true love. Flowers grew where her tears landed, the most beautiful white flowers you can’t find anywhere else—that’s actually true by the way.
“As time went on, more people came to live by the river. A tradition started. Boys would pick these flowers for their girlfriends. To prove their courage, because until the 1950s, this area was prowling with wolves. Also to prove their love is true. Us girls have a different tradition. You put the flower in a jar of water, and if it doesn’t wilt for three days, then you know he really loves you. The end.”
“Nice story.”
“It’s rather sexist if you ask me,” Cora says. “Like I need some boy to pick flowers for me, I can do it myself.”
“Didn’t Eli pick a Tear for you?”
“I never asked him to.”
“Did you put it in a jar?” I ask.
“Yeah . . .”
“Did it wilt before three days?”
“Nope, but that’s because I dumped a scoop of fertilizer in the water. And it’s not cheating because no one said you can’t.”
We share a laugh.
While talking, we’ve managed to fill our cart with pots of hydrangeas, roses, and lavenders, plus a bag of garden soil.
“You want to help me plant these later?” I ask Cora.
“Sure you don’t want to be alone with Asher?”
“Cora!”
“Just saying. It’s like so obvious.”
“It is not.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose, Natalie.”
“Oh shut up.”
She giggles, helping me push the cart to the checkout line, and I realize it’ll take serious muscle hauling everything to my car. Someone with a lot of testosterone would come in handy right about now.