by Lucy Quinn
After a moment, he hung his head and then glanced up, giving her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Charlie. You’re right. It’s none of my business.” He lowered his voice and his next words were barely audible. “It’s just hard to sit around and watch.”
An ache pushed out all the warm feeling of the morning and she stood there, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t sure if he was hurt, or just frustrated. Either way, she didn’t appreciate the possessive act he’d had going on.
But he saved her from coming up with a response when he forced a smile and said, “Shall we go?”
She let out the breath she’d been holding and returned his smile, grateful to put the awkward moment behind them. “Yes, I believe we have an appointment at the Clip, Dip, and Rip.”
“I wish you wouldn’t put it like that,” Hunter said as he pushed his chair back and stood, sounding more like his usual snarky self again. “It makes it sounds like, well—”
“Like you have an appointment to get trimmed, tanned and waxed?” Cookie teased, leading the way back toward the front door. She hadn’t even bothered to take off her coat. “I’m sure they can squeeze you in if you ask. Maybe they’ve even got an officer-of-the-law discount.”
“No thanks,” he replied as he followed her out, bypassing the mustang. Despite the cold, there wasn’t much point in driving, considering the short distance. “You, on the other hand, would look smashing with bright blue hair and little diamonds on your nails.”
“Just the thing for the Winter Festival,” Cookie agreed readily. “A little ice queen to go with the frost.”
They continued to banter all the way back down the hill and if there was any lingering tension between them, they both did their best to ignore it. It was almost like old times, and Cookie was glad. Because no matter what else happened, she didn’t want to lose Hunter as a friend.
The Clip, Dip, and Rip was a small shop located near the center of town. When there were less than four hundred people on the island, and more than half of those were lobstermen who’d never even considered cutting their hair, let alone styling it, you didn’t need a lot of space for a salon. So, Cookie wasn’t shocked to find the reclining barber chairs along one side completely empty, save one. And that one just happened to contain one of the employees, though not the one she was expecting to see.
“Peaches?” she asked, causing the pretty but clearly enhanced bleached blonde to glance up from the magazine she’d been reading. “What are you doing out here?”
“I work here, silly,” the blonde said with a giggle. As with the last time they’d met, Peaches struck Cookie as not terribly bright but sweet and very upbeat. Especially now that she wasn’t mourning the death of the man she’d been dating—even though it had turned out he’d been two-timing her with one of her co-workers.
Cookie tried again. “What I meant was where’s Mindy?” she asked. “I thought you’d be in back instead.” The front area was Mindy Tremaine’s domain. She was the salon’s resident hair stylist. Peaches was the aesthetician and spent most of her time waxing, buffing, and manscaping.
“Oh, she and her brother are gone for the holidays,” she explained. “I forget where they went, some island or something, but a warm one.” She shrugged. “Trina, Brooklyn, and I are taking turns filling in for her.”
At least they knew Brooklyn was still in town. Cookie shot a quick glance at Hunter, but he had his poker face on and showed no sign he’d even registered the woman’s name. Besides, Peaches was still talking.
“Did you need something?” she asked them. “If so, you’d better hurry, ’cause I’m about to get real crazy busy around here.” She giggled again. “It’ll be like Christmas came early.”
Something told Cookie she was going to regret her next words, but her curiosity won out. “Oh?” she asked. “Why’s that?”
Sure enough, the bubbly blonde brightened, grinning so widely it was a wonder her cheeks didn’t crack. “The Holiday Revue, of course. It’s all anyone’s talking about.” She bounced a little in her chair like a young girl who’d just gotten a pony for her birthday. “Rain hired me to make sure all the guys look their best up on stage.” She leaned in a little toward Cookie and lowered her voice to a suggestive whisper that could still be heard across the room. “I can’t wait to get my hands on all those packages, if you know what I mean.”
Cookie coughed. “Um, yeah, I think I got it,” she muttered.
But Peaches’ gaze had now swung over to Hunter, who looked decidedly uncomfortable with this conversation. “What about you, handsome?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him. “Are you going to be one of Santa’s big helpers? Because if so, I’m happy to get started on you right now.” The look she gave him made it very clear that she was offering a lot more than just a quick wax job.
“No, thank you,” Hunter replied, and despite his dark skin, Cookie was sure he was turning red. “I’m not participating in the revue.”
“Oh.” Peaches pouted. “Now that’s a shame.”
Cookie let her partner stew in it a few seconds longer then rescued him. “We’re actually looking for Brooklyn,” she said. “Is she around?”
“Sure thing,” Peaches replied, not taking her eyes off Hunter for a second. “Brooklyn!” she shouted over her shoulder.
After a few beats, a head emerged through the curtain that led to the back. “Yeah?” She had a long, narrow face topped with short, streaked hair that had been gelled and swept up and around into a curving tip. The hairdo resembled a soft-serve ice-cream cone, Cookie thought but didn’t say as the girl stepped through the door and approached them. She was as tall and thin as Cookie remembered, around her own height, and her eyebrow ring winked in the light. “What’s up?”
“You’re Brooklyn, right?” Cookie said, holding out her hand. “I’m Cookie. My mom and I run the inn.” She gestured to Hunter. “This is Agent Hunter O’Neil, with the FBI. We wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
In the salon’s bright lights, it was easy to see that the girl had paled. She glanced around, as if thinking about bolting, but there wasn’t anywhere to go. The salon only had the one entrance, and Cookie and Hunter were between her and the door. Finally she nodded. “Yeah, okay.” Then she turned and retreated back through the curtain. Cookie quickly stepped after her, with Hunter bringing up the rear. Fortunately for them, Peaches showed enough smarts to know not to follow.
The salon’s rear section was divided into several curtained-off areas, and Brooklyn led them back to the waxing area, which held one big reclining chair and several smaller, backless wheeled ones. “What’s going on?” she asked, perching on the edge of the big chair.
“You work in the art gallery, right?” Cookie started as she claimed one of the smaller chairs, accepting instinctively that Hunter was going to let her take the lead on this one. “With Petra Peabody?”
Brooklyn nodded.
“When was the last time you spoke with her?”
The girl shrugged. “A day or two ago,” she said. “Maybe three. The gallery’s quiet this time of year. Not a lot of tourists in town once the snow hits. And the salon’s busy ’cause of the revue and people wanting to spruce up for the holidays, so I’ve been over here the whole week. Petra understands. She knows I’ll be back at the gallery soon as it warms up again.”
Hunter frowned, and Cookie knew he’d also caught the use of the present tense. Either Brooklyn didn’t know that her boss was dead or she was putting on a really convincing act. “So you haven’t seen or talked to her in the past few days?” he reiterated.
Brooklyn shook her head. “No. I keep meaning to—I’ve been working on a new portrait I wanted to show her—but we’ve been busy and I keep forgetting.” She frowned, studying the two of them. “Why? What’s going on?” The color that had returned to her face as they’d talked fled again all at once. “Is she okay?”
Cookie stood and stepped over beside the girl. “No, she isn’t,” she said, keeping her to
ne soft and calm. “I’m sorry, Brooklyn. Petra’s dead.”
“What?” This close, Cookie could see the utter shock in the girl’s expression and was sure her reaction was genuine. “No!” she cried. “She can’t be!” Then the tears started, and Cookie wrapped her arms around the poor girl, holding her as she wept.
After a few minutes, Brooklyn pulled back, rubbing fiercely at her eyes. “What happened to her?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Hunter answered diplomatically. “Which is why it’s important that you tell us if you’re aware of any conflicts Petra may have had with anyone.”
But the girl was already shaking her head. “No, everybody liked Petra,” she replied, her voice still thick with tears. “She was awesome.” Brooklyn started crying again. “She was teaching me how to paint. She said I was good, too. What am I gonna do now?”
Cookie reached out and snagged a box of tissues from a nearby cart and handed them over to Brooklyn.
The distraught girl took one, wiped at her eyes, and then blew her nose, loudly.
“You can’t think of anyone who might have been upset with Petra?” Cookie asked once the girl started to calm down. “No angry customers or ex-boyfriends or anything like that?”
“No,” Brooklyn insisted. “Petra got along with everybody.”
Cookie recalled the blond man Mrs. Gibbon’s had mentioned and asked, “Do you recall a blond man who was a friend of Petra’s? One that came to visit around Thanksgiving?”
Brooklyn shook her head as she stared at them with glassy eyes.
Hunter’s voice softened as he asked. “Is there anyone you can think of we should contact about Petra’s death?”
Brooklyn’s shoulders shook as she croaked out. “No. I don’t think Petra had any family.”
Cookie glanced over at Hunter, who tilted his head toward the door, indicating the interview was a lost cause. She had to agree. It was clear Brooklyn didn’t have any information that could help them. “If you think of anything else, anything at all,” she said as she moved back so that Hunter could reach past her and offer the girl his card, “give us a call, okay? Even if you think it’s nothing, it could still be important.”
Brooklyn nodded and took the card, but she barely even glanced up. She didn’t move or say anything else as Cookie and Hunter turned and headed out. Peaches was waiting anxiously right by the curtain, wringing her hands. “Is she okay?” the aesthetician asked as they stepped back through into the front.
“Give her a few minutes,” Cookie advised. “She’s just had some really bad news.” Then she and Hunter left the blonde to hover and wait, the sounds of Brooklyn’s faint sobs following them until the door closed with a very final thunk.
8
“What do you think?” Hunter asked now that they were outside and it was quiet again, save for the wind.
Cookie frowned. “I don’t think she did it, if that’s what you mean. She wasn’t faking being upset, or surprised. I believe her about not having seen Petra in days.”
Hunter nodded. “Agreed. Doesn’t mean she couldn’t know something, though.”
“True.” Cookie stared down the street without actually seeing any of the buildings. “We’ll give her a day or two, let her calm down a bit. Once she’s over the initial shock, maybe she’ll remember something useful.”
“Sounds like a plan. Where to now?” he asked. “Go over to Hancock and check in with Jared?”
“Definitely. Let’s hope he’s got something to tell us.” The coroner had texted them the night before to let them know Barry had gotten the body back safely. Hopefully he’d had time to do at least a preliminary, if not an actual autopsy. Cookie was eager to find out any information. Cause of death could help them rule out a lot of potential suspects, and maybe even point the way to the right one.
She and Hunter were taking their first steps down the block when a familiar voice intruded, echoing out over the quiet streets. “Oh, come on,” the woman insisted, her voice full of sugar. “A big, strong man like you? I’d think you’d be happy to get up there and strut your stuff.”
“Wha—?” Hunter started, but Cookie shushed him quickly, pushing him back against the front of the salon as she glanced around. That had been Rain she’d heard, no question, but where was she?
After a few seconds of frantically scanning the area, Cookie finally spotted her mother. Rain was standing out in front of the Tipsy Seagull, hands on her hips as she addressed a big, beefy guy with a long grey beard and a matching ponytail. Her voice carried, allowing Cookie and Hunter to hear every word of her little speech.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Rain was insisting. “You should be proud of who you are and what you’ve got”—Cookie saw her lean in toward the man—“and from what I can tell, you’ve got a package that definitely needs to be unwrapped.”
The man said something back, but his words were mumbled into his beard and Cookie couldn’t catch them.
“What the hell?” Hunter demanded in a whisper. “Is that Rain? What is she doing?”
“Trolling for performers, from the sound of it,” Cookie replied. “I guess since you refused her, she has an opening on the dance squad.”
“Drug busts, kidnappings, gang warfare, organized crime, I’m fine with,” he muttered as a shudder rolled through him. “But that woman scares me.”
“Well, in that case we probably shouldn’t hang around here and let her get her hooks into you,” Cookie pointed out. “She’ll just try to recruit you again.” She grabbed his arm and hauled him away from the salon and back onto the sidewalk proper. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Going sounds good,” Hunter agreed. He let Cookie take the lead as she studied her mother. When she judged Rain to be the most preoccupied, they set out at a brisk walk across the street. Once they were safely on the other side, Cookie relaxed a little. But she still kept her eyes open—and her ears fixed on that spot behind them—as she turned and cut behind a bait shop, guiding Hunter down the narrow alley there. That let them slip unnoticed down the remaining two blocks between them and the ferry dock. By the time they emerged and headed for the pier, Rain was no longer in sight.
“Thanks,” Hunter said as they reached the dock, their feet making loud thunks as they went from asphalt to wood.
“No problem,” Cookie said. “Wouldn’t want you having to face your greatest fear on a nice day like this.” She grinned wickedly at him. “Though you would look awfully good in one of those little Chippendale outfits.”
Hunter shuddered again, but then he turned a smirk toward her, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, so you’ve been thinking of me in that outfit, have you?” he asked with a suggestive brow-waggle. “Good to know. And I can definitely get one, if that’d make you happy.”
Cookie’s imagination ran wild, and she couldn’t escape the sudden image of Hunter wearing a bowtie, shirt cuffs, bike shorts—and nothing else. Down girl, she had to remind herself. No drooling while on duty. Doing her best to put her libido in check, she smirked at Hunter. “Yeah, don’t get too excited. I’ve already seen Hale in that and a whole lot less.”
That made him laugh. “He really is the perfect match for your mom, isn’t he?”
“Pretty much,” Cookie agreed. The truth was, she actually liked Hale and thought he probably was good for Rain. He’d certainly shown that he was willing to go along with her little fantasies and other requests. He was a calming influence in some ways, but in others he let Rain do her own thing, just being there in the background for when she needed support.
Yeah, Cookie thought, there are way worse things than that.
The ferry’s arrival distracted her from her thoughts. She and Hunter watched as the boat pulled steadily closer, the noise fading as its engines trailed off, letting inertia bring the vessel the rest of the way in. Finally it bumped up against the dock, and immediately Captain Bob leaped across, anchor rope in hand. Once he had the ferry secured, he returned to the ship’s front en
d and ceremoniously unhooked the chain gate there, allowing the two waiting cars to exit the boat. Cars leaving the island boarded before other passengers were allowed to walk on.
“Afternoon, Captain,” Cookie said as she stepped onto the ferry, shivering slightly from the wind gusting off the water. She leaned in to give the older gentleman a quick kiss on the cheek. “How’s it going today?”
Captain Bob—that was the only way Cookie had ever heard anyone refer to him—smiled at her. “Thanks, sweetie. Going okay for me and even better, now. So, who’s dead this time?” When Cookie swatted at him, he laughed. “Oh, come on! You know as well as I do that if you’re going across to the mainland, it probably means somebody’s met their maker.”
Rather than confirm or deny his suspicion, Cookie focused on a few questions of her own. Making her tone casual she asked, “Hey do you know Petra Peabody?”
The ferry captain nodded. “Sure. She owns that little art gallery downtown, right? Why?”
“Because she’s dead,” Hunter stated baldly. He’d done that to gauge Captain Bob’s initial reaction, Cookie knew. And considering the way the man reeled back a step, eyes wide, mouth open, it had worked. They’d gotten unvarnished surprise, and unless the ferry operator was also an award-winning actor, she was pretty sure it was the real deal.
“Dead? As in murdered?” he managed to ask once he’d recovered.
Hunter shrugged. “The cause of death is still unknown.”
“Well… that’s pretty awful.” The captain frowned as he eyed Hunter with displeasure. “Damn, son, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” Captain Bob shook his head and turned away. “Anyways, I’d better get this crate moving. You’re gonna want to be getting to Hancock sometime before midnight, after all.”
“That would be nice,” Cookie agreed. She rested a hand on the stocky older man’s arm. “And I’m sorry about my partner’s abrupt manner. Tact isn’t always his strong suit.”