“Shut up.”
“Boy, everything makes you cranky.”
“You make me cranky.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He sat up again and twisted in the sand to face me. “You know I’m innocent.”
“Pft.” A few pointed accusations came to mind, but he meant of murder. “Yeah. I know you didn’t kill Brady.” Against my better judgment, I looked into Adrian’s eyes. Clouds of blue and gray collided inside them. A summer storm. My lips rolled in over my teeth. I blinked, furious with my idiotic brain.
“Who was on the phone? The friend who helped you move? Do I get to meet her soon?”
“No and no. No one can know I’m talking to you. Plus, it wasn’t Claire on the phone.” My lips twitched.
Adrian frowned.
“It was an agent. I called him yesterday to run a few things past him. He’s going to come over tomorrow so we can talk about your case.”
Adrian scowled. “Glad my pending imprisonment is helping your love life.”
“We’re just friends.” Heat crept over my neck and face.
“He’s driving two and a half hours from the mainland to talk about my case. You were on the phone. He couldn’t have talked about it from there? Or by e-mail? Or text? Video chat?”
I stood up. Obviously I couldn’t get any peace anywhere. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.” He smiled, wide and ornery. “I just like getting your goat.” He stood and shoved his fingers into his pockets.
“I swear, you drive me insane, Adrian Davis.” I turned to leave and he reached for me, brushing his fingers against mine.
He pulled me back to him. “Hate is a very passionate emotion. A heartbeat away from love, I think. You know what else I think?”
No. Who could think with those wild eyes looking back at them? Unable to choose words, I shook my head.
“I think you and I are meant to be.”
He ruined it. If he’d kissed me, I could’ve slapped him. Then I would’ve slept like a baby. Instead, he pronounced the words I’d cried myself to sleep over for years. I stomped my heel into his foot and marched off, back poker straight.
He chuckled behind me.
I wouldn’t look back. Never again.
Again, I tossed in bed until dawn, hating Adrian’s effect on my heart and mind. Hating my curiosity and obsession with puzzles even more. I saw Louboutins drinking whiskey all night. Mrs. McGee and Perkins shooting craps in Vegas. The coach betting all his money on them.
I woke with resolve. I would help Adrian. Not because we were meant to be together, but because I believed in our justice system and if I could help it succeed, then it was my civic duty to do so. When I did save his self-absorbed behind, I expected the deed to my new boathouse free and clear. A fair trade, if anyone asked me—a dilapidated office in exchange for his freedom.
Chapter Six
The phone vibrated in circles on my nightstand. Claire.
“You’re still sleeping?”
“One of the many benefits of unemployment.” I looked at the clock by my bed. Nine fifteen. “I can’t sleep here. I tossed and turned all night. Again.”
“Well, I hope you got enough beauty sleep to enjoy your day with Mr. Muscles.”
I shot upright. Sebastian was coming. “I’m up.”
“Call me when he leaves. And, lady, if you call before tomorrow morning, I’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“The other line’s ringing. Who’s calling?” I gasped, heart still fluttering at the reminder of Sebastian’s impending visit.
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s coming from your office.”
“What can I say, we’re lost without you.”
I disconnected with Claire and answered the incoming call.
“Patience, thank heavens! Where are the new hire files supposed to go after we complete the interviews? I sent them to Burns and he sent them back.” Lucy, my new replacement, who apparently never did a thing until I left, spewed a full-on freak-out into my tired ear. I stumbled to the kitchen for a vat of coffee. I’d have to settle for a pot to get me started.
“Put them in the file marked Completed. It’s under the new hire drawer. Burns will get them when he’s ready. If you send them to him, it implies he’s moving too slowly and he’ll retaliate over the insult.”
“Retaliate how?” Her voice quavered.
“Gotta go.” Let her sit on that. She could find out the same way I did.
A ton of unopened boxes waited along my walls for attention. I’d unpacked the necessities, but the rest looked daunting. Avoidance was an underestimated survival technique. I checked my voice mails and got online. According to the exterminator, I needed to board up the opening where boats were once parked if I didn’t want any rats to find their way back inside my new office. Aside from that, the place was clear. Sebastian had also left a message. He’d see me for dinner.
If I stayed home all day, I’d drive myself crazy.
A trip to the hardware store sounded like a good idea. The problem with turning a boathouse into an office was the lower level. Everything behind the office was open water and a dock for boat parking—also known as a giant rat door. Nothing some plywood and a few nails couldn’t fix. I left my name on the hardware store corkboard, seeking a contractor. With any luck I could find one who accepted payments. A hundred bucks later, I loaded my trunk with some gorgeous hunter-green paint and miscellaneous supplies.
It was a perfect summer day. Eighty-five and sunny. The sky reflected its blue onto the water as far as the eye could see. A speckle of wispy white clouds floated above me. I rolled my windows all the way down and let my hand drift outside the window. Air-conditioning might’ve been cooler, but nothing compared to the scent and feel of the warm, briny air. Summer on the island was sheer paradise.
Unloading the paint from my trunk, I admired my new office space. In a month, no one would remember what a mess it used to be. I propped open the door and windows of the boathouse. The cooped-up scent burned my nose, and breathing in paint fumes with the bleach still lingering in the air would kill more brain cells than I was willing to spare. I brought up my playlist and stuffed ear buds into both ears. One good coat of paint, and I’d head home to shower. Another coat tomorrow. Voilà. Progress.
The paint went on with ease, transforming watermarked gray into sophisticated green. Rolling beauty over the ugly gave me a thrill. The music made me happy, too. The bass beat in my head as I admired my work. I sang until the very last note. Then I took a step back. A prideful smile split my face. The office looked fabulous. I did that.
I squatted before the paint tray and dropped the roller to dust my palms together. Look at me getting things done. My head bobbed with satisfaction as I pulled my purse across the floor and settled back on the linoleum. The moment needed memorialized. Stage one of the boathouse resurrection: complete.
While my arm was elbow deep in my purse, a resounding crash sent me facedown on the floor. Glass shattered everywhere, spilling and skidding across the floor around me. A series of loud pops followed and then the screeching of tires. For a moment, I imagined the place was hit by an airplane. I dragged myself over the floor to peek out the open door. No flames or crashed cars. No fuselage. My car sat at a tilt.
On my knees, I dusted myself off, while outside a hoard of people appeared out of nowhere. Most kept a safe distance for optimal gawking. A kid carrying a skateboard lifted his phone my way and took a picture before moseying away as if the spectacle wasn’t worth more of his time. A few brave souls crunched through the broken glass to my side and rubbed my arms. They looked into my face, mumbling. Their words bounced off me. I wriggled free, pulling my purse behind me, and zombie-walked to my car. I opened the door
to my Prius, which almost scraped the ground since it sat on one completely flattened tire. From a distance I took in the scene around my office. People yammered into cell phones. A splatter of black spots covered the walls. Shattered glass sparkled in the sunlight.
I blinked.
Someone had shot my car! And my office! It had to be the first drive-by shooting in the history of the island. The local media would love this. My brain revved so far into overdrive I couldn’t deal with it. Fight-or-flight kicked in—I needed to get away from there.
My skin tingled as I shuffled along the sidewalk through a shimmering mirage of heat. My heart rammed against my ribs, making it hard to catch a full breath. Every tiny sip of oxygen took effort. Hyperventilation. I was experiencing my first panic attack. Well, there was no time for that. Sheer stubbornness forced my feet forward. I shuffled, half-breathing, half-dazed, around the corner to Main Street and kept going until shops came into view.
A family wearing sun visors and fanny packs snapped my picture with a giant camera. A kid wearing swim trunks and swim fins over his flip-flops stuck out his tongue. My ears rang. A duo riding a two-seated bicycle waved. My wrist lifted and fell to my side. Three doors to go. Past the artesian jeweler. Two more. Past the photography studio. Bells tinkled overhead as I shoved my way inside the cool glass door. I collapsed inside The Purple Pony. Resting my head on the bench where my father liked to nap, I curled my legs behind me on the floor.
“Patience!” My parents materialized. “What happened?” Some psychic. If Mom didn’t see that coming, I didn’t think she’d fool anyone anymore.
“Help me move her,” Mom commanded.
Dad scooped me up and carried me through the bead curtain to the back room, wobbling slightly under my weight. I regretted all the French fries when he heaved me onto the window seat with a groan. I used to nap in the back room after school. Mom kept the window seat covered in the fluffiest pillows on earth.
My heart rate settled by a fraction. “There was a drive-by shooting.” The words were stupid. Where was I? Compton? Who did that? “At the boathouse.”
“Patience, you could’ve been killed.” Dad handed me his magic sugar water.
I waved it away and shifted into a sitting position. “They shot out one of my tires, too.”
“Honey, lie down a minute.” Mom hovered mere inches away, looking as serene as ever, despite the tension in her voice. “Did you call the sheriff?”
“No.”
She worked over my face and arms with a warm washcloth, checking for injuries. “You’re all scratched up. Does anything hurt when you move it?”
“No. Just cuts. There was a lot of glass.” I really needed a handyman now. How much did windows cost?
“Here.” She handed me a Purple Pony T-shirt and took Dad into the next room.
I carefully ran the washcloth over each eye, and the cloth came back black. The boathouse must not have been as clean as I thought. I needed to go by the hardware store again, this time for a few dozen dead bolts, chains and sliding locks. People didn’t do drive-by shootings on Chincoteague. That honor was a special treat for me. Who had I pissed off? Cute little Mrs. McGee with her fancy shoes? Perkins, the sleazy, drunken partner? Maybe someone with a grudge against counselors? Or someone else who thought I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong? The last option scared me the most. Hiding or defending myself from the unknown would be more difficult.
“Your chakras are a mess.” Mom approached me on my way to the door. “Stay for tea. At least let me call Nurse Higgins to give you a once-over.”
I grabbed my purse from the bench and wandered out onto the sidewalk. “No, I’m okay. I need locks.”
“Your dad and I will get your car to the mechanic for you.”
“Thank you.” I shut the door behind me and shuffled toward the hardware store on autopilot.
* * *
After screwing the last of my new dead bolts in place at my apartment, I face-planted into the couch. What next? Bars on the windows? Bulletproof glass?
A shadow crossed over the window above the couch. My life. I held my breath and waited. No sounds. I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket. If I was going to die, someone was getting a blind eye for it.
My phone vibrated, and I picked up.
The muffled voice coming through the wall sounded crisp in my ear. “Miss Price, you have a delivery.”
I leapt from the couch to the door in a ninja move and whipped it open. Sebastian stood blocking out the sun. A bouquet in one hand, his phone in the other.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” My word was a whisper. I cleared my throat. “Come in.” I accepted the flowers.
He took in the boxes stacked against the walls. “Still unpacking?”
“It’s been an unbelievable three days.” The air gushed from my lungs.
“You look pale. Are those cuts on your arms?”
“I was in a drive-by.”
“Sit.” Sebastian pushed me in the direction of the couch and headed for the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator door and grabbed a bottle of water. “Is that a chocolate pie? You want a piece of pie?”
I started my story there, with the pies, and while I recounted my short history of counseling in Chincoteague, Sebastian shoved the flowers into a glass of water and returned with two slices of chocolate pie.
“So, one guy paid you a hundred bucks for having coffee with him and some lady brought you a pie and a fifty?” He bobbed his head. “It’s good pie.” His fork disappeared between his lips.
“Yeah.” Blinking away the image, I went on to tell him about Adrian, his mother, my bad chakras and the details of my drive-by shooting.
“You’re in over your head, boss.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Bad chakras are nothing to shake a stick at,” he deadpanned.
I tossed a pillow his way, missing by a mile. “What do you think?”
“I think you should let this alone. Tell the sheriff what you know and let him handle it.” He anchored an elbow over the back of his chair and stretched his legs out before him.
“I can’t.” I fell sideways onto the couch. “I literally can’t. I’m incapable of letting things half this interesting go. I’ll never be able to stay away.”
“Why haven’t you made an official report?” Sebastian’s expression was unreadable, but I had a feeling he was gauging me.
“It happened fast. Getting shot at is disorienting. I left. I’ll go to the station later. Not that it will matter. The local sheriff isn’t exactly a case cracker.”
“I want a look at the crime scene. You’ll show me later?”
“Yeah.” Later. How late was he staying?
“Which door is your bedroom?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is this a one-bedroom or two?”
“One.”
He ducked his head. “How’s the couch?”
I crinkled my nose at him.
“I’m staying. Don’t argue. I know it’s rude, but I’ll take rude over dead any day. I leave you here alone and you’re a goner.”
“You’re staying the night?” Claire would be so proud. I’d leave the couch part out.
“No.”
Oh.
“I have the week off. Mandatory. They’re looking into some...details surrounding the bust. After what you told me on the phone, I planned on spending a couple evenings on the island helping you figure things out, but someone made an attempt on your life this afternoon.” His voice lowered an octave on the last statement. “I’m staying.”
“Okay.” A week? I didn’t know if I wanted to celebrate or run away. A week of him seeing me without makeup in the morning, and dirty from cleaning the boathouse. Also, how would I keep Adrian away? I had no way
to tell him I wasn’t alone.
“I’ll get a room at one of the inns I passed,” he said, seeing my hesitation.
I shook my head. “No way. Every room on the island’s booked by now. Pony Week’s upon us.”
He raised a serious eyebrow, but didn’t ask. “I keep a few of my things in the truck. I’ll be back in a minute. Tomorrow I’ll make a trip home for more.”
When he returned, I’d already texted Claire the entire situation.
Sebastian stopped inside my door and braced his palms against the doorjamb overhead. I shivered. Sebastian didn’t look like a special agent. He looked like trouble. Dark eyes, messy black hair, olive complexion. His skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat from the summer heat. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of a fitted T-shirt. He slung a duffel bag onto the floor. “I hear you’re one hell of a swimmer.”
“Says who?”
“Claire.”
A million dollars said Claire wanted me to get Sebastian into his swim trunks and take secret phone pics for her. “I don’t suck.” A blush burned its way across my face.
“Let’s go.”
“Swimming? Now?”
“Sure. We can think this thing through while we enjoy a little sun, sand and surf.” He rummaged through his bag. He came back with a pair of black board shorts. If he also found a volleyball in there, I’d lose my mind. Volleyball guys were mad sexy.
“Give me a minute.”
Fifteen minutes later I had on the first suit I tried. Never mind the six others I tried before reverting to the first. I pulled on a pair of jogging shorts and a T-shirt to cover the bikini.
Sebastian sat on my couch smiling out the window. “You know there’s a lady with woodpecker hair watching your place from across the street?”
“It’s Adrian’s mom. She says she’s making sure I’m working on his case.” I climbed on the couch beside him and looked. “Where is she?”
“Behind the white bread truck.” Sure enough, her red-sprouted hair popped into view. She was on the sidewalk staring at my window through the windows of a bread truck across the street.
Murder by the Seaside Page 7