by Lucy Quinn
“Oh, why did I let you talk me into this?” Cookie asked as she pushed her plate away. Not a scrap of food or sauce remained, just the empty bowl.
“Talk you into it?” Hunter echoed, smirking at her from across the small table. “Pretty sure there wasn’t any arm-twisting involved.” His plate was equally clean. He’d had the gnocchi del giorno, which tonight had been in a saffron seafood sauce. She’d tried his, and had agreed that it was excellent. But still, nothing compared to the orecchiette, the little-ear pasta swimming in a delicate pink sauce alongside sweet sausage, mushrooms, and peas. Truly one of the most exceptional dishes she’d ever had, and tonight had lived up to her memories of it.
As had the rest of dinner. True to his word, Hunter had detoured them to visit a little wine shop on the way, and had selected an excellent Brunello that had nicely brought out the flavor of both their meals. They’d talked, laughed, reminisced about old cases and office pratfalls, and laughed some more. It had been a very good night.
So when Luigi, their waiter, brought over a small paper bag, Cookie groaned. “What is that?” she demanded. “Take it away. I couldn’t touch another bite.”
“Really?” Hunter asked, accepting the bag with a smile and handing Luigi a wad of bills in return. La Locanda was cash only, always had been. “Not even hand-stuffed cannoli?”
“You are the devil,” Cookie accused, but she leaned forward to reach for the bag. Hunter pulled back, however, raising it tauntingly out of reach.
“Too slow for Lucifer,” he teased, rising to his feet and somehow managing to juggle the bag while pulling on his coat. “Guess you’ll just have to stick around a little while longer if you want any of these.”
“Evil incarnate,” Cookie muttered as she rose to follow him. She paused her grumbling long enough to smile and thank Luigi on the way out, then went back to scowling at Hunter. “Give it here,” she insisted.
“Or what?” he asked as he picked up the pace and called over his shoulder, “It’s not like you’re in much shape to chase me right now.”
“I could just shoot you,” she warned, increasing her own speed to a near trot in order to keep up.
“Except that I happen to know you’re unarmed,” Hunter told her with an evil chuckle. “So, yeah, try again.”
It was true. Since they’d flown, she’d had to leave her firearm behind and she had to admit, she wasn’t exactly comfortable walking the streets of Philly without her piece at her back. Cookie briefly considered throwing something at Hunter. Like perhaps one of her boots, but quickly decided against it. There was no sense in risking her toes on his hard head. Instead she adopted a wheedling tone, like the one her mother used all the time. “Hunter, please?”
That one stopped him in his tracks as he turned and stared at her. “Dirty pool,” he claimed, handing over the bag.
“Hey, all’s fair in love and cannoli,” she quipped, snatching the bag from him before he could change his mind. Then she looked around, spotted a nearby park bench, and made a beeline for it, her prize in hand. Hunter followed, muttering something under his breath.
They’d just crossed over Arch Street, and were right near a very nice park, an oasis of grass, trees, and paved walks in the midst of large office buildings. As she settled onto her chosen bench with Hunter beside her, she glanced up and realized that she could see the stars.
It was, she thought with a surprising pang, a lot like home.
That was the first time she’d realized she even considered Secret Seal Isle to be her true home. When had that happened, she wondered. When had she grown so comfortable there, so used to it that she actually missed it now?
She wasn’t entirely sure. Absently, she reached into the bag and grabbed a cannoli.
“This is the life,” Hunter exclaimed, breaking into her momentary reverie as he reached over and reclaimed the bag.
Cookie concentrated on her pastry, biting into the crisp shell and tasting the rich ricotta filling, speckled with pistachios at the ends. “Hell, yeah,” she mumbled around her mouthful, letting the flavors melt across her tongue. “Ah, there’s nothing quite like a fresh cannoli.”
“See, you can’t get this back on that weird little island of yours,” Hunter pointed out, and at first Cookie thought he was just talking about the dessert. But when she glanced over at him, she saw that he was actually staring out at the sidewalk past the park, where people were still walking around despite the late hour, hurrying home or to dinner or even to work. Cars still zipped by, everyone in a rush to be somewhere else.
Cookie felt a moment of sorrow for them all. When was the last time any of them had stopped to sit and relax and stare up at the stars? When was the last time she had, back when she’d still lived in Philly?
“I love it here,” Hunter said, clearly not in sync with Cookie’s thoughts. “It’s nine at night and they haven’t rolled the streets up yet. People around here are just getting started. Back on your island, they’re all huddled in their homes by now, hiding out from the world.” He twisted around to face her. “That’s no way to live.”
Cookie took another bite to avoid having to answer. But inside, she knew that she didn’t agree. Yes, admittedly she had initially gone to the island to hide from the world, or at least from one particular part of it. But that wasn’t why she stayed. She hadn’t thought about it until now, really, but she and Rain had stayed because they’d started to put down roots.
The pace of life was very different, and clearly Hunter found it too slow to endure. But Cookie realized she had actually started to appreciate a life where she didn’t have to run from the moment she woke up until the second she collapsed back into bed. True, the first week or two there she’d had a little trouble adjusting. She’d been a bit of a fish out of water. Then something had changed. She’d changed. She’d learned to unwind a little, to savor the quieter setting, the slower pace, and the calm.
Even as Cookie finished her cannoli, she discovered she was eager to get back to her hotel room, so that she could kick off her shoes, put her feet up, and just enjoy a little peace and quiet. But even that wasn’t quite what she craved. No, she realized. What she was really eager to do was to get back on a plane, back on a bus, back on a ferry, and finally get back to Secret Seal Isle.
She was ready to go home.
When she glanced over at Hunter with his arms stretched across the back of the bench, soaking up the atmosphere and all the hustle and bustle around them, she felt a different pang. She already knew that when she told him what she wanted, he was not going to be a happy man.
17
“Unbelievable,” Hunter grumbled as he clumped downstairs. “Why are you up so early? Were you up all night, too?” he demanded as he stomped into the dining room and practically flung himself down onto one of the chairs.
“What?” Cookie swallowed the bite of pancake she’d just forked into her mouth, followed it with a quick swig of coffee, and then beamed at him. “No, are you kidding? I slept like a baby.” Which was true, assuming that babies actually slept soundly and through the night.
Cookie’d had plenty of trouble sleeping Saturday night at the hotel. The bed was too firm, the room too crisp and sharp-edged, the air too canned. And the sounds and shadows outside were all wrong. It’d been bad enough that first thing Sunday morning, she’d insisted they head back to Secret Seal Isle.
Hunter had been less than thrilled, to put it mildly. He’d revealed, with a pout, that he’d intended for them to spend the day wandering around Philly. He’d wanted to reintroduce her to the sights and sounds and smells of the city from standard tourist attractions to locals-only favorites. But Cookie had been firm. She wanted to get back as soon as possible.
When Hunter had tried to argue, she’d pointed out that Petra’s killer was still on the loose and that the art thieves could resurface at any time. “Let the locals handle it,” he’d grumbled, and rather than set him off further by pointing out that she was now a local, Cookie had settled for me
rely arching an eyebrow at him and asking, “You mean you want Swan to handle a murder case and a high-level art theft ring all by himself?”
There hadn’t been anything left to say after that, and Hunter had known it.
He had not accepted his defeat gracefully. Instead he’d sulked the entire way back, barely speaking to Cookie the whole time. He’d only grunted at Rain and Scarlett when they’d gotten back to the inn, and after a stony silence at dinner he’d taken himself up to his room and closed the door with a very decisive click.
Clearly his lack of sleep hadn’t helped his mood any.
“Have some pancakes,” Scarlett suggested, pushing the plate toward him. “Rain makes them from scratch, and they’re amazing.”
Cookie’s mom liberally sprinkled blueberries and raspberries into the batter, and the resulting pancakes were light and fluffy, and dotted here and there with bursts of tart berry flavor. Cookie happily went back to eating hers and chatting with Scarlett, letting Hunter mope or join in as he saw fit.
“The VFW hall looks pretty good, actually,” Scarlett said as she sipped her coffee—her second cup, since she’d inhaled her first one. “I mean, it’s a bit rustic, sure, but it’s a nice space, big and open and high-ceilinged, and it’s got a nice big stage across the front. It’s a little dark, but there’s a place over in Hancock that has some spotlights from back when there was a live theater there. Dylan’s going to get them and wire them up today, so they should have plenty of light for the show tonight. They already have a sound system, too. It’s old but works fine, so the music shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Cool,” Cookie said, pushing her last bit of pancake around the plate to mop up the last dregs of maple syrup. “I can’t believe the revue’s tonight. I feel like I missed a few days in all the craziness. It’s nice that you’ve been helping out with it,” she told her best friend.
“Sure, why not?” Scarlett gave her a half shrug. “Your mom’s super excited about the whole thing, and she’s been so great about having me here, I figured it was the least I could do. Besides, it’s been kind of fun.” She laughed. “From prosecuting high profile cases to helping prep a holiday revue on a tiny island in Maine. I’d say ‘oh, how the mighty have fallen’ if it wasn’t my own choice and if I wasn’t enjoying myself more helping lobstermen choose their outfits than I ever did working with all those egotistical lawyers.”
“Careful there,” Cookie warned with a grin. “You used to be one of those egotistical lawyers, remember?”
“Well, sure,” her friend shot back, “but I was allowed, because I was that good.” They both laughed, and even Hunter looked mildly amused.
The hall phone rang, and Rain came bustling out of the kitchen to grab it. After a short conversation, Rain hung up and joined the rest of them. She had a mischievous look on her face. “That was Peaches,” she announced, leaning against one of the empty chairs at the table.
“I don’t want to know,” Hunter declared, raising his hands to his ears.
Scarlett frowned, looking confused, but Cookie giggled. Peaches worked at the Clip, Dip, and Rip and back when they’d been investigating Dickie Dungworth’s murder, it had turned out that Rain was one of her regular customers. Cookie’s mom had insisted on describing—in great detail—exactly what Peaches waxed and trimmed for her, and how. Apparently Hunter had been scarred for life by the experience.
Rain swatted him on the arm but continued without any sign of embarrassment. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to corrupt your delicate mind with any more personal waxing stories… at least not right now,” she teased. “Peaches called because her assistant didn’t show up this morning, and she’s got a line of men out the door waiting to be made pretty for tonight.” She beamed at the rest of them. “She asked if I’d be up for lending a hand, and of course I said yes.”
“Of course,” Cookie muttered, rolling her eyes at Scarlett, who giggled back.
“Well,” Rain simpered, batting her eyelashes, “you know that I’m always happy to handle the talent.” She grinned. “Would either of you care to join me? I’m sure Peaches would be thrilled to have the extra help, and who knows? You just might find something you like.”
“Uh, no thanks,” Cookie told her, cradling her coffee as a way to show that her hands were already occupied.
Scarlett shook her head as well. “Appreciate the offer,” she stated, “but I like to know a guy a little better before I put my hands all over him.”
“Eh, I like to browse before I buy, but suit yourself.” Rain turned and headed for the hall, where her coat was hanging in the closet. “I’ll probably be busy the rest of the day, but I’ll see all of you tonight!” Then she tugged on her winter gear and headed for the door.
“That woman is a force of nature, to be sure,” Scarlett murmured as the front door opened and then shut behind Rain.
“Oh, she’s all about nature, all right,” Cookie agreed, taking another sip of coffee. “The birds and the bees, mostly.” She was mid-sip when something hit her, and she glanced up at Hunter and nearly laughed when she realized he was busy studying his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the joking. “Hey,” she said.
He didn’t look up.
“Hey!” she said again. That got his attention. “Peaches said her help didn’t show up today.”
Hunter frowned at her. “Yeah, so?”
“So,” Cookie said, setting her empty cup down on the table, “who’s been helping Peaches down at the salon?”
It only took Hunter a second to catch on. “Brooklyn,” he said, already pushing back his chair. Cookie clambered to her feet as well.
“Brooklyn, Petra’s assistant?” Scarlett asked, looking back and forth between them as if she was watching a tennis match.
“Exactly,” Cookie answered, already making a beeline for the front hall. Hunter was two steps ahead of her. “Petra who was murdered, and whose gallery was robbed… and whose assistant and student didn’t turn up for work at her other job today.”
“Crap.” Scarlett was half out of her seat now as well. “You guys need any help?”
“No, stay here,” Cookie said, wrestling on her coat. “But thanks.”
“Go get ’em,” her best friend called after her as Cookie followed Hunter out the door.
“That’s the plan,” Cookie agreed, but the look she shared with Hunter was grim. Sure, they knew the names of the guys they were after now. But they had no idea where they were, or what they were after, really. And whatever it was, they’d likely killed Petra for it. If they had done something to Brooklyn now as well, she and Hunter might already be too late.
18
“Do we know where she lives?” Hunter asked as he stepped off the porch and made a beeline for his rented Mustang. It was, Cookie suspected, the one thing he’d actually missed about this place when he went back to Philly.
“Working on it,” Cookie shouted back, already tapping a number into her phone. “Peaches?” she asked a second later when the aesthetician picked up. “It’s Cookie, Cookie James. Rain’s daughter. No, I don’t need her, thanks. I just had a question for you. Do you know where Brooklyn lives by any chance? Great, thanks. Oh, I’ll be there.” She hung up, pocketed the phone, and grinned at Hunter. “The red house on South Pear, second floor.” Then she frowned at the sports car between them. “You really want to take this? The walk is all of five or ten minutes.”
“Time we might not have to waste,” he replied, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Come on.”
Cookie complied, buckling in even as she yanked the door shut behind her. Hunter was already revving the engine, and a second later they were heading down the hill. After a couple minutes, she said, “Pear is the first side street into town. We’ll hit it in, like, five seconds. Turn right.”
Sure enough, the turn was already coming up, and Hunter swung the wheel, squeezing the brakes only a little as he barreled around the corner. “Last time I was here, you were still asking others for directions. You’re
really starting to settle in here, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” Cookie said, ignoring the accusation lacing his words. She’d suspected he was uneasy with how she’d taken to the island, and his tone only helped confirm what she already knew.
Hunter didn’t respond and Cookie turned her attention back to the road.
Up ahead were several houses, and the one near the end was a small two-story red home. “That one,” Cookie said. There was a car, a small silver hatchback, already parked in the driveway. Hunter had to drive a half a block before he found an open spot on the street, and then slid over to the curb. They were both out of the car in seconds.
The house had an exterior staircase along the side leading up to the second floor, and as Cookie and Hunter crossed the frozen lawn, the icy grass and snow crunching under their feet, the door at the top of the stairs opened. A tall, narrow figure appeared from inside, tugged the door shut behind her, and then rushed down the stairs. She had a backpack on over her winter coat and a suitcase and a large art portfolio clutched in her hands.
As she descended, Cookie caught a glint of metal from just below the hood—like from an eyebrow ring. “Brooklyn!” Cookie shouted.
The girl glanced up, saw them, then shook her head and increased her pace. “Leave me alone!” she yelled back. “Please!”
“Wait.” Hunter called as he picked up speed in an effort to close the gap. But Cookie could see that they weren’t going to make it. Not if the hatchback was Brooklyn’s, as she suspected.
“You’re scared,” Cookie tried instead, slowing her pace so she could speak more easily. “I get that. But we can help. Please, talk to us.” She was close enough now that she could see the hatchback a bit better. Its rear door was up, and inside were several boxes and another small suitcase. Clearly Brooklyn hadn’t come in today not because she was hurt or sick but because she was busy packing her entire life into her little car.
She was planning to run.