Wiretaps & Whiskers (The Faerie Files Book 1)

by Emigh Cannaday

  “Yeah.”

  She didn’t seem remotely afraid of him or traumatized by her experience. If anything, she looked like she was remembering a pleasant dream or a recent pretend tea party.

  “Was he scary?” I asked.

  “No, he was nice. He was ugly, but he was really nice. He talked like Uncle Larry.” She started to gurgle and make a series of wet coughing sounds.

  I was intrigued. I turned to Shelly.

  “Uncle Larry?”

  She shook her head. “Uncle Larry was in an ATV accident a few years ago. Got clipped by a low-hanging tree branch. Went right through his windpipe. He’s lucky he didn’t get himself decapitated, but now he sounds like he’s got a permanent frog in his throat.”

  “Ah . . . ” I nodded as Haley stepped closer between me and Shelly.

  “The little man had these big, green eyes and—”

  She stopped and looked at her mom for a second before returning her attention to me.

  “He had green eyes that were the same color as yours!”

  I bristled in my seat and hoped the other two would take her words as nothing more than a throwaway comment. But Hawthorne was now staring intently at my face.

  “Oh, yeah. Green eyes are more common than a lot of people realize,” I said, laughing it off like it was nothing. “Anyway, can you remember anything else?” I asked, hoping to deflect her attention from my eyes. “Something you didn’t mention to the sheriff? Maybe it’s a teeny weenie little detail that didn’t seem important at the time?”

  The little girl swayed side to side for a second as she thought. Then she shook her head and frowned.

  “Nuh uh. I told him everything.”

  “You did a great job today, hon,” said Shelly. “Thanks for—”

  “Oh, wait!” burst Haley. “There was one thing I forgot to tell the policeman. I won’t get into trouble, Mommy, will I?”

  “Of course not,” said Shelly, while rumpling her daughter’s hair. “It’s okay to forget things. What do you remember?”

  “Honey,” Haley said with an amused little laugh. “There were jars and jars of honey and sugar down beneath the tree. Like, a hundred billion jillion jars of it! The little man, the one who was holding my hand, he said it was their most favorite thing in the world. He said candy and cookies and sweets were like silver and gold to people like us.”

  Hawthorne frowned, obviously thinking the girl was just having fun elaborating on her story, but I knew exactly what it meant. And of course, that’s when Hawthorne’s gaze met mine. I knew he was thinking about the comment on my green eyes, and recalling the piles of junk food spread all over my bed back in the treehouse.

  “Sweets are good as gold . . . ” he mused out loud, tapping his pen against the side of the table. “That’s an interesting concept. That means it’s not just something they like. It’s something they value like currency. You could barter with it, in theory.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “And Haley, didn’t you say you managed to get back to our world, up here on the surface because you had cookies in your backpack?”

  She nodded.

  “Yeah! I had a whole box of chocolate chip cookies! They thought I was rich!”

  “As long as it worked,” smiled Shelly. “I’ve never been so glad for chocolate chip cookies in all my life.”

  “I think that’s the key somehow,” said Hawthorne.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he starting to believe now? Or was he merely throwing ideas around?

  Haley, now leaning into her mom, was starting to grow tired of the excitement. She wrapped her chubby arms around Shelly’s neck.

  “Mommy? Can I have a snack?”

  “Of course, sweetie.”

  Looking up at the clock on the wall, I realized a full twenty-four hours had passed since I’d been assigned a new partner.

  “We’d better get going,” I said, standing up. “I’m glad we got the chance to swing by and introduce ourselves. We’ll be around.”

  “You staying in town for long?”

  “As long as it takes,” said Hawthorne, not missing a beat.

  Although Shelly hadn’t completely warmed up to him, she appeared slightly comforted by his confidence.

  “Here, take my number,” I said to her, fishing in my pocket for my business card. “If you think of anything—and I mean anything—you can call or text me anytime.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the card. “I’ll let you know if me or Haley remember any other details.”

  Haley was still hanging off her mom, but smiled and waved as we departed. I waited until Hawthorne started the Navigator before I spoke.

  “So? What do you think?” I asked him.

  “I haven’t got a fucking clue.”

  “Maybe we should visit that Pinkie Pie Trail so you can get a fucking clue?”

  Hawthorne looked like he was fighting with a hell of a comeback. Instead, he just nodded his head and pulled out of the driveway. He didn’t seem to need the navigation anymore—but just when I thought he’d already figured his way around the town, he turned left when he should’ve turned right.

  “The trail’s that way,” I said, pointing my thumb towards the east.

  “I know,” he said, continuing to drive us west, and into the main strip of Yarbrough. “I need something to eat if we’re going to go on a hike.”

  “I have Snickers bars in my bag,” I said, giving my duffel bag a soft kick. “Want one?”

  He made a disgusted face.

  “No. I need real food, as in protein and vegetables. We passed a diner on the way over to the Brown’s. Hopefully it’s halfway decent.”

  As much as I was not looking forward to sitting down to lunch with Hawthorne, my stomach began to growl at the thought of anything covered in syrup and whipped cream.

  Twenty minutes later, I had my pancakes sitting in front of me, along with a strawberry milkshake. Hawthorne had just taken a huge bite of a double bacon cheeseburger across from me.

  “So? Do you believe her?” I asked.

  “The girl or the mom?”

  “Both.”

  “Oh, I definitely believe them.”

  I started to get my hopes up. Then, of course, he went on to crush them.

  “I mean, it can’t be faeries, but I believe that they believe they saw something. The two of them are as honest as they come. I don’t think they’re lying. They might be nuts, but they’re not lying. That house is in pretty bad shape. Maybe we should have it tested for carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  Making zero effort to conceal how I felt about that reply, I rolled my eyes, shook my head, and went back to my gooey pancakes.

  “I’m guessing from your melodramatic body language that you believe them.”

  “Obviously. It’s my job to, and besides . . . ”

  He popped a French fry into his mouth and waited for me to finish my thought.

  “Well? What else were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Anyway,” he continued, “whatever the fuck it all means, I think the honey or cookies or whatever is important. It’s what set Haley free. By the sounds of it, the sweets have some kind of value to our suspect.”

  “No shit?” I was busy with my spoon, digging around my milkshake for the elusive maraschino cherry. “You already figured that out? Damn. We’re going to have this whole case solved by the end of the week.”

  Instead of arguing with me, Hawthorne pulled out his phone and ignored me for the rest of the meal.

  7

  Logan

  One outlet.

  One.

  That’s all we had in this damn treehouse.

  I was charging my phone and laptop when Rivera had the genius idea to plug in her turbo-charged hairdryer. Of course it blew a fuse. But what really pissed me off was that her hair wasn’t even wet; she was heating up some stupid goop that she put on her hair at night. And of course, it was me who had to climb down that rickety ladder
, through a cloud of mosquitoes, and go ask Sheriff McKinney to help me fix it.

  “Just so you know, I am not doing that again.” I took off my shoes and set them at the foot of my sleeping bag, then lay down and pulled the cotton sheet over me. “Everything about this arrangement sucks.”

  “Oh, you think I’m thrilled to be here?” said Rivera through the darkness. “Because it’s totally my dream come true to be stuck in a treehouse with a douche like you.”

  “Hey! At least you get the bed. I’m stuck on the fucking floor. And douche? Really? How old are you? Twelve?”

  I lay against the floorboards, listening to the hordes of mosquitoes whining at the window screens, begging to get in and make me even more miserable than I already felt. This was like the worst sleepover I’d ever had. No horror movies to watch, no popcorn. There was no television or radio. All we had were the four walls of the treehouse and the sound of the bugs whining outside. That’s when the coyotes started howling. I looked over to where the branches from the trees outside were dancing against the screen and squirmed even more. It wouldn’t take much for a broken branch to fall and poke a hole in the screen, letting in all the bloodsucking, disease-ridden mosquitoes.

  I hated this place.

  The whole town was weird, too. Not weird enough to have little faerie people living beneath the trees, but weird.

  “Hey, you still awake?” came Rivera’s voice after a few minutes.

  “What do you think?”

  “I thought maybe you already fell asleep.”

  “Oh, you thought it was so comfortable down here on the floor that I somehow fell into a deep sleep the minute my head touched the pillow?”

  “Damn, you’re touchy,” she snapped.

  “Me? Touchy? You’ve been a prima-fucking-donna from the minute I stepped into Harris’ office. Who the hell uses a blow-dryer when their hair’s not even wet?”

  “I needed the heat to activate my split end prevention mask,” she said, like I gave a shit.

  “If your hair’s that messed up, maybe it’s time to think about cutting it.”

  “Ugh, just shut up.”

  “Why would you bother to wake me up if you were going to tell me to shut up?”

  “I thought you said you were awake!”

  I sat up in the dark, wondering what the hell I was doing here. For a brief moment, I thought about zipping myself up in the sleeping bag and knocking all the screens from the windows to let the mosquitos have their way with her. They’d probably love it, what with the amount of sugar in her bloodstream. But I quickly abandoned the idea and took a deep breath instead. Someone had to be the adult here.

  “I’m sleeping downstairs,” I muttered, and began rolling up the sleeping bag. “I’m sure McKinney won’t mind if I crash on his couch.”

  I pulled my laptop cord from the single outlet and started to pack it up, along with my phone. Grabbing my thin blanket and pillow, I stepped across the dark, creaky floor towards the treehouse opening and reached for the handle.

  “Wait!” Rivera hissed. “If you go out there, you’re going to let in all the mosquitoes!”

  “That’s a price I’m willing to pay,” I said, grinning at the thought of them swarming her. I imagined them forming into an arrow and aiming straight for her ass. “At least McKinney doesn’t screech like a velociraptor every time he opens his mouth. He might even let me get some sleep.”

  I reached again for the handle, when the little LED lamp above the bed switched on.

  “Hawthorne . . . don’t,” Rivera protested. Her voice had lost the sarcastic edge and become soft, like when she’d interviewed the Browns earlier that day. There was even a hint of tenderness to it. “You don’t have to go bother McKinney. He and Martha are probably sleeping by now. At least wait until morning if you’d rather sleep on his couch.”

  I sat back and considered the offer. She had a point. I was going to be here for weeks, if not months working this case. The last thing I wanted to do was piss off the sheriff who’d been nothing but cooperative and given us a free place to stay. Just then, the coyotes started another round of yips and howls. They sounded closer. I looked at my partner, who didn’t appear overly concerned, but she definitely wasn’t thrilled about the idea of sleeping out here with a pack of coyotes nearby.

  “You can even have the bed if you want,” she offered, and pulled back the covers. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  She started to climb out of the bed, and I forgot all about what the hell I was supposed to say next. It might’ve had something to do with the unwitting peek she’d given me of her black lace-trimmed boy shorts, or the round, supple ass that was filling them out. They looked expensive, handmade even. But I could tell she wasn’t wearing them for me. She was the type of girl who never did anything to please a man. No, those sexy panties were for her enjoyment alone. The oversized FBI t-shirt she wore only called more attention to her bare thighs. Was it normal for her skin—including her legs—to have that shimmery glow to it?

  “You should keep the bed.”

  “Honestly, I don’t mind. I’ve slept on worse.”

  I wouldn’t hear of that. First, she was a chick, and making her sleep on the floor wouldn’t be very chivalrous. Second, I refused to give this chick the pleasure of me accepting such a peace offering. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I called her bluff.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I plugged my laptop and phone back into the single outlet, then unrolled the sleeping bag and lay the sheet and pillow on top. “Besides, whatever glitter lotion you’re wearing is probably all over the sheets. I’d rather not change our sleeping arrangements.”

  I kicked off my shoes and lay back down, but I was wide awake. I scrolled through my phone, studying a satellite image of the Pinkie Pie trail in hopes of discovering an old mine or a river or a cliff. But we’d hiked out there until it had grown dark and come up with nothing. We even found the tree that Shelly had described. There was nothing particularly special about it. It was just a tree.

  “Do you want me to turn out the light?” Rivera asked. And, of course, that’s when I looked over and saw her climbing back into the bed, giving me another shot of that lacey apple bottom. I snapped my head back to its previous position and went back to studying the green landscape on my phone.

  “Nah. I don’t think I’ll be falling asleep anytime soon.”

  “Me, neither,” she said, situating herself until she was perched on the edge of the mattress. “May as well go over the case notes until I pass out.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. I leaned over and showed her the picture on my phone of Pinkie Pie Trail. She gave me a faint smile and I returned it.

  “I also have snacks,” she said reaching into her suitcase at the bottom of the bed. “If that helps.”

  Remembering those packages of unnaturally pink Snoballs, I was about to turn down the second peace offering, but then she surprised me with a grease-stained white paper bag.

  “Homemade blueberry muffins,” she said, pleased with herself. “From the diner.”

  My eyes widened.

  “When did you get those?”

  She snickered.

  “When you were in the can.”

  She smiled again, this time more brightly. Were we finally starting to get along?

  “Okay, well hurry up and take your shit, Brad. We’ve got work to do.”

  The harshness was back in her voice as she tossed the paper bag at me and ripped open a bag of Skittles.

  “My name’s Logan.”

  “I know, but you look like a Brad.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Rivera crammed a handful of rainbow candies into her mouth and chuckled in response.

  “Aw, shut up. You know exactly what it means. I’m talking about spoiled momma’s boys who play football and date cheerleaders and drink energy drinks. You know, Brads.”

  “I think you’re insulting everyone in the world who’s called
Brad. Anyway, what the hell’s wrong with playing football and all that other stuff?”

  “Nothing,” she smiled.

  But her eyes told me she was repulsed by all of that.

  “Oh, I get it,” I said, throwing myself down on the opposite end of the bed from her. “You think you’re too cool to be around someone who actually knows how to dress like a professional adult. I bet you were one of the chicks in high school who hung out behind the art building smoking clove cigarettes and reading Sylvia Plath. I bet you thought you were a real badass. You probably had a Facebook profile where you called yourself fucking Azrael Lovecraft or Raven Reznor or some other gothic punk shit.”

  “I did not!” she exploded, throwing a pillow at me.

  “I think I hit a nerve,” I taunted. “You just don’t like me because I was one of the popular kids. One of the cool kids. And if that makes me a Brad, then fine. I’m a Brad. But you should probably call me Logan or Hawthorne if you want me to give you the time of day.”

  Her cheeks flushed an angry shade of deep pink as she crunched her candy menacingly at me.

  “Am I wrong?” I asked. For the first time, she said nothing and just glowered at me.

  Good.

  Hawthorne one, Rivera ZERO, I thought triumphantly. I’d finally figured out how to put this nippy little brat in check.

  “Whatever, Logan,” she said, trying to sound bored, but I knew better. “Let’s get to work. We’ve got some kids here who might never grow up to smoke cloves or read Sylvia Plath if we don’t find them first.”

  After that sobering comment, she grabbed her notes and began scanning through her pages. I joined her, flipping through my own notebook as I skimmed over my frantic handwriting. I started to wonder if I’d been too much of a dick.

  “Just so you know,” I said cautiously, “I hate energy drinks and I’ve never dated a cheerleader. I did play football, though. And I was a total momma’s boy. How did you know that?”

  She was quiet for a minute, then looked up. I could feel her gaze burning into the side of my face.

  “You part your hair on the left side,” she replied. “Since most people are right-handed, your mom would’ve parted your hair like that when you were facing her. Then it just becomes a habit as you get older.”