by Lucy Quinn
Captain Bob sniffed but seemed to accept the apology. Just as he was turning away, however, he stopped. “Oh, can you get a message to your mom for me?”
“Sure,” Cookie replied. “What’s the message?”
The ferry owner managed to look both pleased and embarrassed at the same time. Staring at his shoes, he finally said, “Um, just let her know that I can’t make rehearsal until later, okay? Got to wait ‘til the last run before I can dock for the night. But I’ll be there after. And make sure and tell her I’ve been practicing.”
“Practicing for the revue?” Cookie blurted.
He nodded, then bolted toward the ferry’s little cabin, leaving Hunter chuckling and Cookie staring after him in shock.
“That woman does get around,” Hunter admitted as the ferry’s engines roared to life. The boat slowly began to pull away from the dock, picking up steam as it started making its way across the water toward Hancock. “You know, you should offer to be a test audience for Captain Bob. I’m sure he’d appreciate the feedback.”
“And you should keep your mouth shut,” Cookie shot back. “Or you might find yourself signed up for a starring role in that revue after all.”
“You can sign me up for anything you want, but you can’t make me go,” Hunter said, still laughing.
Cookie shifted and cocked an eyebrow at him, her hands on her hips. “Oh, no? You want to put money on that?”
They stared each other down for a minute, neither of them budging, but then Hunter shook his head and stepped back, hands up. “Definitely not,” he said, one side of his mouth curved into an amused smile. “How about we just call it a draw, okay? I won’t tell Captain Bob you want a preview, and you won’t tell Rain I changed my mind about performing. Deal?”
Cookie chuckled. “Deal.” She shivered as a cold breeze came off the water and bit right through her coat. “Let’s get inside where it’s warm, huh?”
“I hear that,” Hunter agreed and followed quickly as she made her way at a near jog for the small heated cabin.
She was careful not to look Captain Bob’s way as she stepped inside. She just wished she could unsee the images he’d put in her head.
It was going to be a long ferry ride.
9
As Cookie headed down the sheriff station’s stairs toward the morgue, she thought she heard music. The sound increased the farther she descended, and by the she’d reached the basement the bass was so loud it felt like it was vibrating up through her feet at every step. “What the hell?” she muttered.
Hunter said something behind her, but she couldn’t make it out over the pounding beat. Maybe Jared’s out to lunch and Barry’s blasting the tunes, Cookie thought as she forged ahead, although it was an older song, not something she’d have expected the teenager to like.
When she finally reached the morgue’s double doors and pushed them open, the blasting music nearly bowled her over. When she recovered, she took one step and froze.
What the… whoa.
Instead of finding Barry, a familiar tall, lanky man with a scruffy mustache and wire-rimmed glasses was wearing a white lab coat that he was currently peeling off, one shoulder at a time.
And he wasn’t alone. A petite female she recognized as Frankie Sandretti was perched on the edge of the desk. “Take it off!” she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth. “Woo-woo! You go, tiger!”
Cookie was so stunned by the strange display, she was rendered speechless.
Hunter, always a man of action, shouldered past her and deliberately threw the doors wide so they slammed against the wall. Both of the room’s occupants jumped and turned to face them, the small woman at the desk breaking into a big grin after her initial shock. The man was considerably more flustered as he struggled to jerk his lab coat back into place.
“Uh, hi, Cookie, Agent O’Neil,” Jared mumbled, his face red. After finally pulling his lab coat back up around his shoulders, he hurried over to his computer and turned off the music. “Nice to see you both again.”
“You too, Jared,” Cookie told the medical examiner with a smile, though she couldn’t help arching an eyebrow and adding, “Though I wasn’t expecting to see quite so much of you.”
“Ha, too bad you couldn’t have waited another twenty minutes,” Frankie spoke up, rising to her feet in order to step closer and say hello. “You’d have seen a whole lot more then.”
“Frankie,” Cookie said, giving the other woman a quick hug. “I didn’t even know you were in town.”
“Yeah, just got in the other day,” she replied and hugged Hunter as well. “Got some time off for the holidays, and thought I’d come up for a bit and spend some of it with my favorite ME.”
Jared blushed still further, but couldn’t stop a sappy smile from blossoming on his face. He and Frankie, who was a pathologist down in Boston, had hit it off back in November when Hunter had called her in to help with a sensitive case that involved Jared’s dead brother. Cookie was glad to see their relationship was continuing despite the distances involved.
“When he told me about the Holiday Revue, and that he’d agreed to take part…” Frankie said, “Well, how could I not ask him for a little preview? Especially since I’ll have to be back with my family by then, and I’ll miss the real show.”
Cookie shook her head, amused.
“You got roped into that thing too?” Hunter grumbled from behind her. “What is wrong with the people around here? It’s like this whole town is permanently off its meds.”
“Hey, it’s just a bit of fun for the holidays,” Jared shot back, and Cookie wondered if it was Frankie’s presence that was giving him the courage to stand up to Hunter when normally he would have cowered from the big FBI agent. “Cookie’s mom asked if I’d do it, and I said sure.” He thrust out his chin defiantly. “Sometimes you gotta do what scares you, you know?”
“Absolutely,” Cookie agreed, giving Hunter a shut-the-hell-up look. Then she turned to Jared. “But right now I need you to do what they pay you for, if you know what I mean,” she quipped, trying to lighten the mood. “Unfortunately the investigation must go on.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, all business. Turning to his desk, he scooped a folder off the top and handed it to her. Hunter moved in closer and peered over her shoulder as she flipped the folder open and scanned the page.
“Cause of death was a single gunshot to the chest, right through the heart,” Jared explained, unable to stop himself from summarizing. “Bullet was a nine millimeter, fired from no more than six feet away. Death would have been instantaneous.” He frowned, adjusting his glasses. “The only other thing is the ear. That was cut off post mortem.”
“Post mortem?” Cookie glanced up at him. “So it wasn’t some kind of torture? You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” Jared replied. “There were a few strands of fiber caught in the earring, too. I’ll analyze them, but at a guess I’d say they were cotton. Loose fibers, not like from a shirt or anything.”
“Like packing material,” Frankie suggested. “Somebody packed that ear up and took it somewhere or sent it to someone. Like in the movies.”
“As a warning, maybe?” Hunter guessed. “But for whom?”
“And if that’s the case, how did it wind up in Winter’s mug?” Cookie added.
“Well, it did have clear scratches and tears, like from a bird’s beak and claws,” Jared offered. “If I had to guess, I’d say your killer cut off the ear and sent it to someone. That someone tossed it out. Then a bird found it, scooped it up, and then dropped it—kerplop!—into her mug.”
“And now it’s back here where it belongs, with the rest of her,” Frankie finished. She shook her head. “Poor thing, she’s no older than I am. It’s tragic that her was life cut short by a single bullet.”
“A bullet with a purpose,” Cookie pointed out. “Whoever shot her was close enough that Petra no doubt saw it coming. Which means she probably knew her killer. Especially if he—or she—then went to th
e trouble of carving off an ear to threaten somebody else. Add in the fact that the killer stuffed her in a garbage can and we can be sure this wasn’t an accident.” She and Hunter had already guessed that, of course, but this just confirmed it. They were looking for a cold-blooded killer.
“How long has she been dead?” Hunter asked, and Cookie realized she’d shut the folder while they’d been talking. She flipped it open again, but Jared had the answer for them already.
“Three days, maybe four,” he replied. “No more than that.”
“It’s Friday now,” Hunter stated, “so that’d mean no earlier than Monday, right?” He turned to Cookie. “Brooklyn said it’d been a few days since she’d seen Petra, so she may’ve been the last person to see her alive.”
“Aside from the killer,” Cookie corrected. “Because there’s no way that girl did this.” She waved the folder to make it clear what “this” meant.
Hunter frowned. “You’re probably right. But that means somebody else out there on the island did.”
Just then his phone rang, and after glancing at the screen he answered. “This is Agent O’Neil,” he stated. “Yes, that’s right. Oh? Excellent, thank you. We’ll be right there.” He turned to Cookie as he hung up. “That was the locksmith here in town. He can go back to Petra’s with us.” He grimaced. “While you were… busy this morning I checked up on her, and it turns out she did own that house.”
“Got it.” Cookie didn’t miss the questioning look on Jared’s and Frankie’s faces, but she wasn’t about to go into the whole dating triangle thing with them. “Let’s go,” she said, swiveling about and starting toward the door again. “Thanks, Jared,” she called over her shoulder as she headed out, Hunter right behind her. “Appreciate the quick work.”
“No problem,” the coroner replied behind her. “This was an easy one, fortunately. Good luck finding whoever did it.”
The last thing Cookie heard as they pushed their way through the doors was Frankie shouting, “Now, my sexy beefcake, let’s take it again from the top! Give Mama some love!”
The music started blaring and Hunter opened his mouth to no doubt make yet another snarky comment, but Cookie cut him off.
“Not a word,” she said. “Besides, you’re the one who introduced them.”
The sound of Hunter’s jaw snapping shut was audible despite the decibels behind them. “Understood,” he finally ground out, but his expression was stone-cold, and his entire body stiff. Cookie sighed as she began climbing the stairs. Her partner had always been on the grumpy side, but she wondered when had he become such a complete and utter grouch.
Then again, she had just spent the morning on a date with his rival for her affections. She supposed that could sour anybody.
Doing her best to tease him out of his bad mood, she glanced back over her shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him. “You know, I could probably check the house on my own,” she offered, deliberately making her voice syrupy sweet. “Then you could go back down there and practice some moves with Jared. Just in case you change your mind. I’m sure he and Frankie would be happy to coach you.”
“Shut up,” Hunter warned, but Cookie saw him unbend enough for a smirk to touch his lips. “Like I need any tips from that couch potato,” he added, the smirk unmistakable now.
“Oh, so you’re saying you can do better than what we just saw?” Cookie asked, reaching the ground floor and exiting the stairs to head for the main door.
“You’d better believe it.” Hunter’s smirk transformed into a full-on grin. “Play your cards right and you might see my moves for yourself.”
“However will I contain myself,” Cookie retorted, but she was glad to see that her partner had successfully shaken off his dour mood. The rest of the way back to the island, they traded quips about stripping and showing off. And while Cookie couldn’t speak for Hunter, she blushed enough that she barely even noticed the cold.
10
“Took you long enough,” Mrs. Gibbons said by way of greeting as Cookie and Hunter started up the walk toward Petra’s house. She’d opened her own door and hurried out as soon as they’d gotten within twenty feet of the place. No doubt she’d been waiting for them.
At least she’d dressed this time, Cookie thought, studying the other woman’s corduroys, boots, and lined sheepskin coat. She’d even managed a scarf and matching hat. That had to be a lot warmer than a bathrobe and lobster slippers.
“It’s been a whole day since you found her,” Mrs. Gibbons continued. “And you’re just now getting around to searching her house?” She shook her head. “It’s no wonder this country’s in such a mess if that’s the best the law can do for us.”
Hunter opened his mouth to respond, but Cookie took one glance at his thunderous expression and cut him off. “We appreciate your concern, Mrs. Gibbons,” she told the old busybody. “But I assure you, we’re working as fast as we can. You wouldn’t want us to rush and risk missing something, would you? These things have a certain order to them, a rhythm, and if we upset that we could botch the whole investigation. Nobody wants that.”
The other woman sniffed but couldn’t seem to find any actual fault with Cookie’s statement. “Who’s he?” she asked instead, gesturing toward the man waiting for them by the front door. He was average height and build, had a bushy black beard, and was carrying a small toolbox in his gloved hands.
“He’s a locksmith,” Hunter replied, his tone sharp. “Can’t investigate if you can’t get in.”
Mrs. Gibbon’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”
“Actually, we don’t,” Cookie answered. “Petra’s dead, and our understanding is that she lived alone. So we’re not invading her or anyone else’s privacy—we’re investigating her death.” She gave the neighbor a hard look. “Unless there’s something you haven’t told us about her living situation.”
The other woman threw up her hands. “Don’t look at me,” she insisted. “I keep to myself and mind my own business.” She paused for a moment and gave Cookie a sly glance. “That being said, I ain’t never seen her bring a fella home before, or a gal, either, except for Thanksgiving, like I told you.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust and shook her head. “I suppose now that she’s dead, I’ll never see my pie plate.”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Gibbons,” Cookie told her firmly, ignoring the woman’s commentary. “We appreciate all your help. But this is an official investigation, so I’m going to have to ask you to step back and let us handle this.” Without waiting for a response, Cookie turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the other woman gaping at her.
While she’d been dealing with Mrs. Gibbons, Hunter had abandoned her to meet the locksmith. Now, as Cookie caught up to them, he introduced them. “Cookie, this is Dominic Foster. Dominic, this is my partner, Deputy Cookie James.” Cookie didn’t miss his use of the word “partner,” nor the way it felt so right, like they were back in Philly and nothing had ever changed.
“Nice to meet you,” she told Dominic, shaking his callused hand.
“Same here, ma’am,” he said. “I hear y’all need to get into this here house and you’re missing the key.” His accent placed his roots a long distance south of Maine, and Cookie wondered how he’d wound up in a small New England town. But now wasn’t the time to ask. Without really waiting for a reply, Dominic had pulled what looked like the bottom of a staple gun from his toolbox. The front of it, however, had a long, thin metal rod sticking straight forward. He inserted that into the front door’s top lock and gently, carefully squeezed the trigger. Cookie thought she heard a click.
“One down, two to go,” Dominic declared, pulling free and then lowering the gun to the next lock and repeating the process. Once more, and the door swung open at his touch. “All set,” he said, placing the tool back in his toolbox and stepping back out of the way. “Y’all let me know if you need anything else, y’all hear?” He tipped his cap to them and then turned and moved in the direction of the ferry
.
“Thank you!” Cookie called after him, and the locksmith waved a hand in reply. Then he was gone, while Mrs. Gibbons was still standing in front of her house with her arms crossed and a disapproving expression on her face.
“Nothing like having an audience,” Hunter muttered.
Cookie snorted and shook her head.
“After you,” Hunter said, pushing the door open with one gloved hand and waving her in with a grand gesture of the other. Cookie chuckled and nodded, sashaying past him into the darkened interior of the house. Hunter followed her in and then shut the door, blocking out Mrs. Gibbons’s eager stare.
“Not a lot of light for an artist’s home,” Cookie noted, pulling on her own set of gloves. The curtains were closed, and she reached over, flipping the light switch. The lights flickered to life, revealing a small, cramped living room broken up by stairs at one end and a door at the back. The furniture was nothing special, decent-looking but not fancy, a little worn but still serviceable. Everything was well-coordinated in terms of color and pattern, including the paintings on the walls.
“Nice,” Hunter said, studying the painting nearest him. It was a dark, moody piece showing a couple caught out in a downpour on a foggy night, and it made Cookie think of old movies with all of its heavy shadows punctuated by a few glimmers of light scattered throughout.
“One of hers,” Cookie commented, pointing toward the bottom where a scrawled signature read PetraP. She considered the piece, with its thick layers of paint that added texture and additional depth. “It’s an oil,” she stated after a second. “It has to be. Otherwise she’d have had a hard time getting that much richness in the color.”
She glanced back at Hunter and found him looking at her instead of the painting, one eyebrow quirked. “I had no idea you knew so much about art,” he said, peering at her. “You been holding out on me? Did you actually come to this island for the artist colony, and the inn’s just a cover?”