Chasing Summer

by Nicola Claire

  Coupled With Her Soft, Sweet Voice, She Could Have Been Mistaken For A Wind-Up Mouse

  Tammy Matthews ran the Tammy’s Tasty Treats Catering Company which didn’t scream Big Wig or corporate event but was all Northland. And you took what you could get up here.

  She had a soft, sweet voice and a giggle that made you cringe, and when she answered the telephone, she sounded a little like Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, Mr President. Tammy had been a couple of years ahead of me in high school, and although I’d known her in passing - we Doubtless Bay Daughters had to stick together - she wasn’t what I would call a good friend.

  Tammy, however, thought everyone a friend.

  “Summer! What a wonderful surprise!” She also tended to use exclamation points with the frequency of a flickering lightbulb. Coupled with her soft, sweet voice, she could have been mistaken for a wind-up mouse.

  “Hey, Tammy,” I said into my cell phone. “How are you?”

  “Busy! Oh my gosh, Summer! I’m so busy!”

  “That’s great!” Now I was using them. “I won’t keep you long.”

  “Don’t be silly! I’ve got time for an old friend,” she told me. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’ve got a new boarder,” I said, not daring to mention my current employment status with the police force. Tammy was a gossiper. Like half of Doubtless Bay. “And I fixed the roof on Gran’s house last month.”

  “That beautiful old place! Oh my gosh, that must cost a packet to renovate!”

  I wasn’t sure I was renovating so much as chasing my tail trying to stop the place from falling down around my ears. But I didn’t correct her.

  “It does, which is why I’m calling,” I said.

  “Oh, what can I do for you, Summer? I’d gladly help. Mabel was really good to my mum back when…well, you know.”

  Tammy’s dad had done a runner when we were in our teens. Gran had spent a lot of time ‘round at Tammy’s mother’s place helping her get back on her feet. I wasn’t the only one who missed Mabel O’Dare.

  “Yeah,” I said, because talking about that was about as welcome as a burst pipe in my walls right then. “So, I was wondering, have you got anything temporary available right now?”

  I knew she did, of course, but like with most people, subtlety worked best. Tammy might be a bubble-a-minute kinda gal, but you still needed to finesse things like this.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” she told me. “This couldn’t be better! Did you…you know…know something?”

  I scowled at the dashboard of my car. Outside Mangonui was going about its tranquil business; the seagulls swooping, the water lapping, the boats bobbing. There was a log over the far side of the harbour which had stuck on something, and part of it was poking up out of the water. It sort of looked like Nessie the Loch Ness Monster.

  My eyes flicked to it now and narrowed. Was it watching me?

  “Um, no,” I said, belatedly. “Nothing like that. I just hoped you’d have something.”

  “Can you work tonight?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Brilliant! Be at the Shimmering Sands Apartments in Cable Bay at six. Wear a black skirt and white blouse and comfortable shoes. I’ll provide the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “It’s a Christmas party. We’re going to be the elves!”

  Oh, good gravy. This was going to be bad.

  “In a black skirt and white blouse?” I checked.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Summer!” Tammy told me. “This will be a blast!”

  And preferably not the blast from a gun type of blast.

  I reached up and rubbed my neck, but it told me nothing.

  “OK,” I said into the cell phone. “Elf it is.”

  “Wonderful! See you at six!”

  The cell phone went dead, and I stared at Nessie.

  “Elf,” I muttered. What next? At least dressed as an elf, handing out cocktails, would provide a cover to some degree. It all depended on how elaborate Tammy got with our accessories. I grimaced and started the car.

  I had just enough time to get to Kaitaia, pick up Doug at the vet's, and return to Mangonui and drop him off with Sadie. I felt bad about that. Sadie was still suffering from a guilty conscience. I’d told her time and again not to give him chicken bones. But Sadie had a tendency to forget little things.

  I couldn’t blame her. She was getting on in years. But I hadn’t been able to get in touch with Charlie, who was still out surfing on Tokerau’s non-existent waves. If he were staying in tonight, I could have left Doug at home. But so close to a vet visit, I wanted my doggy dude to have company.

  So, Sadie, it was.

  I made good time to Kaitaia, and as I parked the car outside the vets, I was actually humming to myself. Doug was a box of jumping beans and made a good showing of licking the skin off my cheeks. I hugged him close for a few minutes, forked over what was left in my bank account, and sent a little thank you up to the gods of finances for the extra income I’d earn tonight.

  “I might even be able to buy you a treat,” I told Doug once we were in the Mighty Micra.

  He cocked his head and gave me his best I’m-so-cute-I-deserve-a-treat-right-this-minute look. He had many looks. This one was his favourite. I reached into the glove compartment and found a rawhide bone.

  “Don’t eat it all at once,” I told him, chucking it on the back seat.

  He got down to doggie business, and I started the car. Checking my rearview mirror, I noticed a leather-clad guy on a motorbike across the street. He wore one of those matt-black, German World War II helmets with a spike on top, a black scarf around his neck which covered most of his lower face, and black sunglasses. The rest of him was a symphony of black leather.

  My neck prickled with awareness and I waited with bated breath for it to give me a hint of what I was dealing with here. Because it was crystal clear to me that the brute of a biker dude was watching me. My neck said nothing, but the prickling sensation of being watched didn’t abate.

  “I could have figured that out for myself,” I muttered.

  Doug looked up at me while gnawing away on his bone. Nothing got between Doug and his bone. He was a bone hoarder. A bone connoisseur. A bone collector.

  This was getting creepy.

  “Right,” I announced. “Time to get going.”

  The biker brute would either follow me or not. But sitting here watching him watching me was enough to make me shudder.

  I pulled out of the carpark, and Biker Brute followed.

  He didn’t even try to hide his interest in me. I kept to the speed limit, neither too fast nor too slow. I watched him and the road before me, almost giving myself whiplash with the speed in which I switched from one to the other. The road wasn’t overly busy heading back to Doubtless Bay, he could have passed me at any stage, but it wasn’t until we were almost there that the biker chose to make a move.

  His bike roared as he accelerated and then he came abreast of the Micra and stared in the driver’s window at me.

  I couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t make out much more than that he liked black. But he stared, his bike sitting in the opposing lane, for long seconds and then throttled up and shot forward. The bike swung into my lane and swerved from side to side, slowing down; as if he was pissed at me for slowing him down and he wanted some payback.

  In the next stuttered heartbeat, he was gone. Roaring ahead like a rocket.

  My hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly; my knuckles turning white. And my breaths were coming in short, sharp pants; sweat beading across my brow. It wasn’t often that I felt threatened in Northland. There were gangs. There was the occasional unrest or confrontation. There were bikers who liked to rule the road. There were drug deals going on. But I carried a gun. And I had a dog. Even if my Micra couldn’t outrun them, I had options.

  But as I pulled the car over to the side of the road and wound down the window to gulp in fresh breaths of air, I realised
I was shaken. The biker had done nothing, really. But the threat had been there.

  He hadn’t been patched. I thought perhaps that was purposeful. Had Darren sent him? I scrubbed my face. Doug whined softly. We sat there, contemplating life and death for several long moments.

  And then I started the car again and drove to Mangonui.

  Sadie was cooking corn fritters, the smell of them frying met my nose before I’d even got out of the car. My stomach rumbled. But that could have been leftover unease at the black-clad biker. Doug bounded up the stairs, shot through the front door with a hello bark, and I followed him into the house in a much more sedate manner.

  There was a tower of corn fritters sitting on the kitchen table. A tower of corn fritters sitting on the kitchen bench. And a tower of corn fritters sitting by Doug’s water bowl.

  “You can’t give him all of that!” I exclaimed.

  “It’s a welcome home gift,” she told me, flipping yet more fritters in her frying pan.

  “He doesn’t need a welcome home gift.”

  “Of course, he does. Everyone needs a welcome home gift. Have you ever thought of giving one to your guests?”

  “They’re not coming home. They’re on holiday. The very antithesis of coming home. Therefore no welcome home gift is required.”

  “I beg to differ. Home is where your hat is. Your house guests have laid their hats in your house. Welcome them home.”

  I shook my head, divested Doug of most of his tower of terror, otherwise known as Sadie’s corn fritters, and placed the plate on the kitchen table. Turning back to my aunt, I opened my mouth to berate her some more, and she shoved a piece of corn fritter in it.

  “Umf,” I said around my mouthful.

  “They’re good, aren’t they?” she said, smirking.

  They were. Everything Sadie cooked was good.

  “There’s sweet chilli sauce on the bench. Dunk a bit in,” she instructed.

  I reluctantly gave in to my stomach’s demands and picked up the rest of the fritter Sadie had attacked me with. Never thought I’d hear myself say that. I chewed, closing my eyes, and letting my tastebuds dance the tango on my tongue.

  “You should give some to the new detective,” Sadie said, ruining my tangoing tastebud moment.

  “Why?” I asked, stuffing more in my mouth to stop me from saying something that would encourage her. Sadie didn’t require much encouragement when it came to setting me up.

  “He needs a welcome home gift.”

  I snorted.

  “And the way to a man’s heart is through…”

  “His stomach?” I guessed.

  “I was going to say bed, but if you want to go the food route, you might have a chance.”

  “Sadie,” I admonished.

  “Summer,” she said back in the same tone of voice. “He’s the one.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since he arrived in town sporting a beard and testosterone. I’m not picky. You shouldn’t be either.”

  “He hasn’t got a beard.”

  “Scruff. It’s enough.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a beard, though.”

  “Like I said, scruff. A good bit of scruff can make things exciting.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “If he’s talking while he’s doing, then he needs to shut up.”

  “Stop.”

  “A man likes to be bossed around in bed.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Of course, he does. Every man wants a lady out of bed and a dominatrix in it.”

  “Shoot me now,” I muttered.

  “Take him a welcome home gift. Or better yet, a welcome to my bed gift.”

  “And you think corn fritters sets the right tone?”

  “You’re right. Take the sweet chilli sauce with you. There’s a heck of a lot can be accomplished with sweet chilli sauce.”

  “You’re mad,” I told her. “Senile.”

  “Experienced.”

  “Not listening!” I said, covering my ears, placing a kiss on the top of Doug’s head and then one on Sadie’s withered cheek, and walking backwards out of the house singing “La-la-la” loudly.

  She pointed her spatula at me. “Mark my words, Summer O’Dare!” she shouted. Half of Mangonui would be able to hear her. “The detective’s a keeper! Keep him well fed.”

  I cringed as several people walking past on the footpath looked up at me and smirked.

  Sadie was still shouting suggestions through the kitchen window as I threw myself into the front of the car. Even winding the window up and starting the Micra’s engine didn’t drown out her suggestion that I entice the detective with corn muffins. Although she didn’t call them muffins, she abbreviated.

  Muttering expletives and chewing frantically on mints to wash the taste of embarrassment out of my mouth, I avoided the route out of Mangonui via the police station and took a circuitous path to my house.

  It was just after five. Charlie wasn’t in yet. The house was roasting, and within seconds of entering it, I was a wet, limp, frizzy mess. A shower, quick change of clothes into a black knee length skirt I kept for appointments with the bank manager and a simple white fitted shirt left over from my high school days playing in the brass band - I had a thing for trombones for a while there - I was refreshed, redressed, and ready to face the music.

  Snorting to myself I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge in search of a bottle of water.

  The fridge was full of beers again which meant Charlie had been home at some stage and restocked my stash. As far as boarders went, he was one of my better ones. Out most of the day, shared the cost of my drinking habit and slept like the dead when I made unfortunate noises with the house’s plumbing. Aside from the occasional trail of sand through the house, he wasn’t half bad.

  I glanced down at the floorboards now, but they were free of sand. Shrugging, I grabbed a beer, took a swig, and let out a sigh as I made my way to the back porch. Coopers Beach was glowing in the late afternoon light. The sun was dipping. The water was lapping. Dogs were barking and catching balls as their owners walked the length of the beach before dinner.

  This was always my favourite time out on the deck. Watching the world slow down as night fell. Life could be so hectic; it was nice to be reminded that occasionally people knew how to unwind. At least they did up here.

  I finished the beer. Recycled the bottle. Charlie still hadn’t come in.

  At five forty-five in the evening, I slipped into the Micra and headed to Big Wig’s.

  My neck said nothing. No one followed me. But I couldn’t help feeling that the absence of a warning was a warning by itself.

  Chapter 16

  A Hot Fox

  A drunk executive pinched my butt and tweaked my elf ears. How he managed to do that and hold onto to his Jingle Jangle Juice Holiday Punch was beyond me.

  “Give us a kiss, love?” he said, puckering up.

  “More Jingle in your Jangle Juice?” I asked, offering the pitcher up.

  “I’ll show you how I jingle my jangle if you give me a kiss,” he slurred and cupped his crotch.

  He was definitely the most inebriated of those in attendance tonight. But the rest weren’t faring much better. Big Wig had yet to make an appearance, and the plebs had decided that meant they could spend up large with his bucks. The open bar helped, of course. So, while I’d been here two hours already, I had nothing but a bruised rear end, blisters on my toes where drunken louts had stood on them, and crooked elf ears to show for my efforts.

  I thanked all that is good and Christmassy in the world that I hadn’t laddered my red and white striped stockings. Tammy had insisted we wear them, along with the ears, a pompom-topped elf hat, and a Kiss Me Quick button. It flashed Kiss Me Quick and then changed to I’m On The Naughty List.

  Tammy had clearly misjudged our clientele tonight.

  I swept past Mr Grabby Hands and topped up another exec’s punch. This one ignored me, which wa
s better for my bruised butt, but he also stopped talking to his companion while I refilled their drinks. I heard him start up again when I was far enough away not to make out his words.

  The conference room at the Shimmering Sands was open to the warm summer night air. Half the partygoers were inside near Tammy’s Tasty Treats, and the other half were out under the stars. Although, the stars hadn’t quite made their appearance. The sky was streaked red and orange, and the golden sand of Cable Bay shone like precious metal. The sea salt air mixed with the scent of iceberg roses.

  I was on pitcher duty, which meant I got to circulate. In and out of the conference room, and then back to the kitchen to refill with punch. The property manager was nowhere to be seen, as was the guest of honour.

  Initially, it had taken some time to figure out the structure of Big Wig’s firm. Not all those present were executives. Danvers had said he owned an engineering company. But although they manufactured things, those present weren’t the factory workers. There were salespeople and customer service people and managers of all descriptions. Not that they wore labels as such. They just carried themselves like upper-middle management types, whereas the sales reps and customer services team all got hopelessly sloshed.

  I took a breather behind a pot plant and watched the ones inside the conference room. Some of the sales staff had congregated around the chocolate fountain centrepiece on Tammy’s treat table. They laughed and joked and drank their punch in alarmingly quick fashion. I could barely keep up with demand.

  They wore the right clothes. They acted the way I expected sales reps to act. They said the right things; budgets and targets and quotas. But something was off.

  I turned my attention to the courtyard overlooking Cable Bay. Here, the big boys sat and smoked cigars. They talked about holiday homes and Jaguar cars and what they got their wife and kids for Christmas. They wore designer shirts and thousand-dollar shoes and Gucci sunglasses.

  They looked the part. They said the right things. But something was off.

  I couldn’t put my finger on it, and my neck was remaining quiet. It frustrated me. I returned to the kitchen and refilled my jug and then headed out onto the battlefield once again.