The Last Fairytale (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 2)

by Molly Greene

  “It’s not where everyone expected me to end up.”

  “The people who really love you have no expectations. We just want you to be happy. And happiness is your choice, Bree. It’s time for you to get unstuck and get excited about whatever will come next. I’m convinced it’ll be wonderful. So is that why you’ve been avoiding us?”

  “Yeah. Because I feel guilty.”

  “Listen, we don’t care if you’re a lesbian who drives a trash truck, as long as you’re a happy lesbian.”

  “That’s a career move I hadn’t thought of.”

  “What, gay? Or a truck driver?”

  “Driver. Interesting, though, that you even mentioned gay.”

  “Why? Livvie acting out more than usual?”

  “No.”

  “What else is going on?”

  “Well, a couple weeks ago I found a dead guy.”

  Cooper’s head whipped around so fast she almost fell off the rock. “Talk about dropping a bombshell. Was the dead guy gay?”

  “It’s complicated. Let’s just say there’s a cross-dressing connection.”

  “Jeez. I hope he-she wasn’t in your bed.”

  “No.” Bree laughed again and wiped her eyes. “No, the dead guy was a client. An interview for a client, anyway. He died before I could talk to him. Seems men will do anything to get away from me. Is this included as one of the wonderful things you’re sure will happen next?”

  “I don’t know. Did he leave you money in his will?”

  “Oh Coop. Always looking for the silver lining.”

  “You should try it, Bree. All right, here’s the last thing I’m going to say. For a while, anyhow. It’s time for you to get on with it. I get that things didn’t turn out the way you wanted, but playing the victim doesn’t work. Life is waiting. Wonderful things can be yours. If you’ll take a deep breath and dive in again, I predict good things will happen.”

  “I want to believe that.”

  “Then do. Believe it, Bree. Life is good.”

  “Life is crap.”

  “Well, there’s no question that it can be, but that’s a really negative belief to hold onto.”

  Cooper stood and dusted the back of her cords, then held out a hand and helped her sister up. “I’ve got news for you. You’ll find out what crap really is when we get back to the barn.”

  * * *

  Twelve-year-old River and his younger sister Sunday were gathering eggs as Cooper and Bree emerged from the leafy canopy behind the house. Storm Strickland was playing air guitar and crooning Climb Every Mountain to the chickens, apparently attempting to distract them so they wouldn’t notice their hard work getting bagged from under their beaks.

  His face lit up like neon when he saw them. He twirled with his arms in the air, sending poultry flying in all directions. “Mom, where have you guys been? Dad is making blueberry pancakes!”

  The kids crowded around, joyous, bursting with life, each taking turns telling a different story. Bree looked at her sister over the children’s heads and smiled. “You did good,” she said.

  “So did you. You just don’t see it yet.”

  They trouped into the kitchen to find Sam humming a tune, tea towel slung over his shoulder, flipping hotcakes on the stove.

  “Bree,” he cried. “Save me from this wild bunch of lunatics. I live with crazy people.”

  The kids surged around their father and clung to his legs, yelling in protest.

  “See?” Sam said, laughing.

  Cooper met Samuel Strickland during her senior year of college. They crossed paths on a campus hillside one warm spring night where they’d gone separately to watch an eclipse of the moon, and were married in Inverness three years later.

  Bree hoped one day she’d have a story like that to tell her own kids.

  “Back off, spawn. Back, I say,” Sam demanded. “If the pancakes end up on the floor, we’ll have no breakfast and Aunt Breezy will be very, very mad. We can’t let her miss a meal. You know how she gets when she’s hungry.”

  Bree shrieked in mock anger and launched herself into the fray.

  * * *

  Sammy rattled a napkin-draped bowl of homemade sweet potato fries and set it down on the table, then handed Bree an icy glass of beer.

  “Now that the big people are alone,” Cooper said, “will you please tell us more about what the heck’s been going on?”

  “Cooper says you found a body,” Sam said. “That doesn’t sound like a fun night out.”

  “Yeah. Andrew Ducane. He was an interview assignment. When I got to his office, the building was deserted and he was on the floor. Apparently he’d just died. They don’t know how yet. Or they’re not saying.”

  “Poor man,” Cooper said.

  “He was just a boy. Only twenty-seven years old and already head of their research department.”

  “What kind of research?” Sam asked.

  “I’m not sure exactly what the company does, but apparently they have a contract with the government to experiment with mushrooms.” Bree sipped her beer. “Wow, Sam, this is really good.”

  Sam raised his glass in a salute and said, “Shrooms? Really?”

  “Not that kind of mushrooms, dolt. More likely they were trying to turn the roots into something the government could use.”

  Sam snorted. “The feds probably have them making weapons or something. Forget all the good things they could be focusing on.”

  “What do you mean, husband?”

  “Fascinating stuff, mushroom mycelium. Shall I give you the spiel about all the incredible functions it performs in our ecosystems and, if we get smart, what we will someday be able to do with it?”

  “Oh boy.” Cooper made a sour face. “Here comes the bio lecture.”

  “Hey, no complaints. You knew you married a science nerd. Anyway, mushrooms show great promise in the field of micro-remediation. Some types actually eat petrochemicals. Other types absorb heavy metals. Someday mushrooms will be commercially available as natural pesticides and cancer treatments, too, I’m sure of it. We haven’t even begun to explore the possibilities.

  “I’ve thought about building a spore house so we can grow our own. For food, of course. Maybe after the beer is perfected.” Sam downed a generous gulp and smacked his lips. “Ahhhhh. Good stuff.”

  Cooper snickered. “So will it be the best little spore house outside Texas?”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Mock if you must, wife, but I don’t hear you complaining about the results of all my projects.” He indicated her glass. She raised it in a silent toast.

  “So back to the deceased person in the office,” Cooper prompted. “What’d you do, call the police?”

  “Nope. Their CEO beat me to it. Apparently he’d discovered Ducane on the floor before I arrived, then came back to find me kneeling over the body. He thought I did it. He held me hostage while he called the cops, who promptly called a homicide goon, who questioned me for a couple hours then took me down to the station before he’d cut me loose. I had to call an attorney–” Bree stopped. “Coop, do you remember Gen Delacourt? She came and got me.”

  “Of course, I loved Genny. I didn’t know you’d stayed in touch.”

  “We didn’t, I–”

  Sam cut in. “So where did he go?”

  “Where did who go?”

  “The CEO. If he found this guy before you did, why was he just calling the police while you were there? Why did he leave? What’d he go away to do?”

  Bree stared at her brother-in-law. “Good question,” she replied. “Genny probably asked, but I didn’t think to with all the ruckus. I’ll tell you what, though, I’m going to find out as soon as I get back to the city.” She tipped up her glass and swallowed a third of her beer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gen could tell by the look on Ryan’s face Sunday afternoon that something was amiss. Her arms went around him. He dropped his bag on the floor inside the door and held her, rocking slightly side to side. She felt tea
rs start behind her eyes and blinked rapidly to hold them at bay, glad she didn’t have to bear up beneath his gaze just yet.

  “What happened?”

  He remained silent for five beats, and when he spoke his voice was low and quiet. “They offered me a new position.”

  Hope quickened her heartbeat, and she pulled back to look him in the eye. “Just offered? That’s not so bad.”

  When he didn’t reply, she cycled back to fear and disappointment and unloosed him, then turned and dropped onto the couch. “You accepted it.”

  “It will mean a transfer.” Ryan followed Gen into the living room and sat beside her. He took her hand, and she let him hold it briefly before she pulled away.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me where you’re going?”

  He cleared his throat. “I can’t discuss the assignment.”

  “You can tell me why you said yes.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “You have a job right here in San Francisco. And we’re doing so well.” Gen quickly held up a flat palm to ward off his reply. “Wait, don’t answer. Looks like I was the only one who thought so.”

  He didn’t speak.

  As she rose from the sofa, her anger rose with her. “I deserve some kind of explanation, Ryan.”

  He took a deep breath and released it before he spoke. “There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound trite and selfish. I’ve tried to settle into this life, but it just isn’t me. I like things to change. You know what I mean, Genny? I love you, but–”

  “Wait, you know what? I was wrong. I don’t need to know more. You’ve said enough.” Gen stared at him. “You requested the transfer, didn’t you?”

  Ryan looked wretched when he reached for her. “I’d like to try and see if we can make a long distance thing work.”

  She turned and strode into the bedroom, away from his confusion and misery and back into her own world.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bree drove in out of the darkness and eased the Beetle into its assigned space in the underground garage. She’d just doused the headlights when her heartbeat quickened.

  There was a shadow in the rearview mirror.

  She locked the doors and reached for her cell, but it was Gen’s face that ducked down with a grave look and a knock on the glass.

  Bree lowered the window.

  “Where have you been?” Gen asked. “I’ve called and texted. I thought maybe you went off a cliff somewhere after our mug shot marathon.” She scooted into the passenger seat.

  “Sorry, my phone’s been off. I drove down to spend a couple days with my sister’s family. Last week was brutal, and I needed to get away.”

  “I understand, believe me. It’s been rough around here, too. But I know something that might perk you up.”

  “Oh?”

  “I took a ride over to Elergene. The company has a card-accessed parking area under the building. It looked like it had a video surveillance system, the kind that takes a picture of every license plate that enters. So I told Mack and he requested the tape for the day Ducane died. He went and picked it up right away and watched.”

  “Does Mack live and breathe being the fuzz?”

  Gen laughed. “He must. He called me over the weekend and told me what he found.”

  “What was it?”

  “The tape shows Vonnegon’s Mercedes coming through the gate five minutes before you entered the building. If he was driving, he didn’t have time to get upstairs. It doesn’t seem likely he was actually the one who found Andrew Ducane on the floor. Not before you, anyway.”

  “Get out.” Bree’s pulse pounded. “Why would he lie? I wouldn’t say I found someone dead if I hadn’t.”

  “Nor would I.”

  “What will Garcia do?”

  “Depends on what Vonnegon says about the car. There’s a chance he wasn’t behind the wheel.”

  “Genny, I’ve been wondering. If he did find Ducane, why would he leave? That night was so crazy I never asked. What did Vonnegon say he was doing between the time he found the body and the time he came back to find me? What reason did he give for not calling the paramedics right away?”

  “Mack said he went to the men’s room to barf.”

  “He sure looked composed when I saw him just a few minutes later.”

  “You already know Taylor Vonnegon is a cool customer.”

  “Well, if finding Ducane made him puke, someone else was driving his car. Maybe his secretary, Mrs. Buttinsky.”

  Bree collected her overnight bag from the back seat and regarded Gen. “Want to come up to my place? Unless you have plans. Is Ryan back yet?”

  Gen’s glum expression told a story, but Bree didn’t know quite what.

  “Sure,” Gen replied. “Let’s order Chinese. Maybe my fortune will perk me up. And how about a funny movie? I could use a laugh.”

  “If it’s chuckles you’re after, we better invite Oliver to join us.”

  * * *

  An hour later they were in Bree’s living room with half a dozen take-out containers open on the sofa table. A bouquet of egg rolls peeked above one box top. A wisp of steam rose from a porcelain sake vase. Gen sipped at her thimble-sized cup and stared at the food.

  “Okay,” Bree said. “What aren’t you telling us? Something’s going on.”

  Gen took another generous sip before she replied. “Ryan’s leaving San Francisco next week for parts unknown, and this time he’s not coming back. We’re breaking up.”

  Oliver gasped. “Oh honey.”

  “Genny, no.” Bree put down her plate. “I don’t get it.”

  “Ryan told me when he came home Sunday that he requested a reassignment.”

  Bree and Livvie both looked stricken.

  “I know,” Gen said. “It’s sudden. But maybe not so unexpected.”

  Oliver stroked her arm. “We’re sorry.”

  A ball of sadness swelled Gen’s chest and threatened to close her throat. She drew in a deep breath. “He wanted to try long distance, but I said no. So he’s at a hotel. We figured the atmosphere at the condo would be tragic with both of us grieving, and we didn’t want to tiptoe around. So he’s coming next weekend to pack. I’ll make myself scarce while he does it.”

  “Are you okay?” Bree whispered.

  When Gen nodded, Oliver topped off her sake and patted her knee. “Nothing a bottle of Jack and a handful of pills wouldn’t cure,” he said. “Oh no, wait, that’s me.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Bree reached for her friend’s hand. “I feel so bad for you.”

  “Part of me is devastated, but the rest of me is surprisingly all right.” Gen tried to smile. “I think it’s better to know sooner than later. Before Ducane’s funeral, I remember thinking I’d been spared that kind of loss, the tragedy of losing family.” She tapped her chest. “But this is what that feels like.”

  Bree’s face crumbled. The news was too close to home; Bree was probably reliving her fiancé’s loss again. How many times had she replayed it?

  “As much as I didn’t want to at first,” Gen added, “I understand. Women don’t have a single unspoken thought, but men don’t talk about how they feel. When something isn’t working, they just try to power through it. So we’re spilling our guts, and we think they’re listening and they feel the same way. But that’s not true.”

  Livvie sniffed. “Not all men.”

  “I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t want to see it. So I ignored the signs and hoped it’d go away.”

  “Honey, we all do that when we love somebody,” Livvie said.

  “I suppose,” Gen replied. “But you know what? I’ve changed. I’m not the person Ryan fell in love with. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just something that happened. Some things work out, and some things don’t.” She sat up straighter. “So I’ll cry it out today, but next week I move on.

  “The truth is that Ryan likes his life and his world to change. He’s used to taking on new things, living in differ
ent places, and I can’t hold that against him. That’s who he is.”

  “To Genevieve.” Oliver raised his sake, sipped, then set his cup down on the table. “At least he had the guts to tell you the truth.”

  “Yeah.” Gen flashed them a grin. “Chin up.” She downed the contents of the cup.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Bree said, “how anyone manages to stay in a relationship.”

  “Maybe Gen has the answer,” Oliver said. “Cry, get over it, then move on.”

  “Look,” Gen said, “It hurts like hell, but life isn’t for the faint-hearted. You know what would help? To take our minds off the dang sadness. Let’s find a distraction. Swim or bake?”

  Bree stared. “What?”

  “Do you want to go get in the pool and work out, or bake up a giant batch of something?”

  “I’m not in the mood for either one,” she replied.

  “Of course you’re not. Neither am I. So what? Choose one.”

  “Count me out,” Oliver said. “I’m not getting my hair wet, and I’m not sweating over a hot oven.”

  “Okay Bree, it’s you and me. I won’t take no for an answer. Choose.”

  “Oh, all right. Bake, I guess.”

  Gen sprang up from the couch and strode to the kitchen door, where she stopped and turned and regarded her friends. “Come on, let’s get to it.”

  “Oh,” Bree replied. “You mean right now.”

  “What did you think I meant? I have a plan, and we need to get busy. How much flour do you have?”

  “A lot.”

  “Perfect.” Gen walked back into the living room and pulled Bree to her feet. “I know one way to wash the poor-me’s out of our system, and it doesn’t involve alcohol. Copious amounts of flour will do a better job.”

  “Time for me to go,” Oliver said. “I need my beauty sleep. And a client requires my presence early tomorrow, there’s some kind of crisis over a paint color. And I have a huge decorating job to bid, and a friend’s dog is sick and I need to take some flowers over. You know how it is. ”