by Cat Larson
“No, not Clarisse,” he barked out. “Penelope Green.”
Penelope? Oh. She’d faded a bit from my mind during the time I’d been preoccupied with the book. But good timing. If she was truly in danger from Regina, Damon was the one to notify.
“I’m talking to you,” he said. Ha. More like growling.
“Right. Sorry. Um, that’s correct. I don’t know her, but—”
“Then why were you having a conversation with her?” he snarled. Seriously? I was dealing with a junkyard dog. “You looked me in the eye and told me just a few short hours ago that you’d never seen the woman before.”
“Yes, but—”
“I want answers, Samm.”
“Look, Officer McGruff. What do you think I’m trying to do!” I yelled.
Jumping Jehoshaphat. He was strung tighter than a centaur’s harp. What was pumping through the air to affect the males like this? I thought of Fernando on his frog-sized pogo stick as if someone had stuck a quarter in him too.
“Now, what I was trying to say,” I toned my voice down, “is that Penelope recently grabbed me—literally—and pulled me aside, told me she’s in hiding.”
“There was a witness. I know all about the interaction that took place.”
“A witness?” Wow. Maybe someone was sneaking around the dumpster, after all. “Who?”
“What I don’t know,” he said, ignoring my question, “is why you didn’t help her when you had the opportunity to do so. Why is that?”
“Helped her? How? The whole ‘interaction’ was a confusing blur. It happened so fast and then she ran away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she talked to you?” I scrunched up my face. Should I have gone to the cops immediately? I’d been concerned with doing the right thing, but my first thought had been to alert Gavin. “Penelope Green asked you to contact Jonny Bellman on her behalf. Not only did you fail to do that, you also lied straight to my face this morning.”
“Whoa. Hold up here.” There were so many things off with his accusation, I didn’t know where to begin. “Jonny who? Lied? Damon, what the frick are you talking about?”
I replayed the brief encounter in the alley, and I was positive the only name she’d mentioned was Regina’s.
“She said Regina but nothing about a Jonny. And she never once asked me to contact someone. In fact—”
“Is that what this is about? Because Regina and Penelope were close, you refused to help her? Is this all a petty jealousy thing?”
What? I gave my head a sharp shake. “You’re gonna have to start being a little clearer because all you’ve done so far is throw mud at me.”
“One thing I do know is that you’re not stupid,” he said.
“That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.”
“You’re in no position here.”
“No position to do what?” I threw up my arms. “To understand what the heck you’re talking about?!”
“How about we start with an obstruction of justice charge. Think you can understand that?”
“Uh, what now?”
“You came into the station at approximately 11:00 a.m. and relayed some information about Clarisse Jones telling you Penelope Green was found dead. Is that correct?”
“Of course, it is. You were there too, you know.”
“You also claimed to have never seen the woman nor spoken with her before. Is that also correct?”
“Again, yes,” I said warily. The way he was treating me made my skin prickle. “Just so our ducks are all lined up in the same row—that was you at the station this morning, right? There isn’t another Kane brother frolicking around I don’t know about?”
“Do you not comprehend the seriousness of the situation?”
I inhaled deeply then blew it out at a snail’s pace. “Damon, please. All kidding aside—promise—I have absolutely no clue what’s going on or what you’re insinuating.”
He stared me down with “The Look” then sighed himself, raking a hand through his hair. If we were playing Emotions Charades, I’d guess “conflicted” for five hundred.
“How did you know, Samm? Just start by telling me that, okay?” His voice was much softer now.
“Okay… but what am I telling you? How did I know what?”
“How did you know Penelope Green was dead?”
Plop plop plop. That was the blood draining from my face onto the floor.
“Dead?” I whispered. How long was I in that shower? “How?”
“How did you know before anyone else?”
“But… I told you Clarisse told me. So, she knew even before me.”
I shook my head. No, that wasn’t true either. Clarisse had told me that before I saw Penelope. I pressed my fingers to my temples. I was spinning something awful.
“Clarisse said she told you no such thing.”
“What?” Throb throb throb. That was the blood that had somehow found its way back up to my head and was now drowning out my ears. “Yes, she most certainly did!”
He didn’t respond. Why wasn’t he responding?
“What, and you’re saying you believe her?” I asked.
“More than I believe you right now, sorry to say.”
“What?”
“You lied to me, Samm. Right to my face. I don’t know why or the reason—”
“No, Damon. Just… no. I did not lie. Or obstruct justice or whatever else outrageous charge you want to pin on me. When I talked to you at approximately 11:00 a.m., I hadn’t seen her. Or even knew what the girl looked like at that point. It was only about an hour ago when I spoke to her. You’re the one with the mystery witness. You should know that’s when she—”
“Samm.”
“Pulled me into the alley and rattled off something about danger and hiding and Regina—”
“Samm.”
“Then ran off. There was nothing about a Jonny or contacting anyone on her behalf or helping her or—”
“Samm.”
“Maybe I should’ve come directly to the police station, but I was cold and wet and sue me, okay? but I didn’t realize the graveness of the situation at the time. I am so terribly sorry for what happened, but I didn’t know she was running off to die, and as horrible as I feel about that, it’s really not fair to blame me when—”
“Samm!” he yelled, grasping my arms hard.
“What?” I yelled back, catching my breath.
“Penelope Green’s estimated time of death was midnight.”
Chapter Six
“I need to make an apple pie.”
Griffin raised an eyebrow. “Thai’s not hitting the spot?”
I slurped up a spicy rice noodle. “It’s wonderful. Thank you again.” He nodded, giving me a funny look. “I was wondering… since you’ve already been so kind as to bring me an early dinner, how about when we’re finished you drive me to Clarisse’s? Consider it my dessert.”
“I thought we were having apple pie.”
“No, that’s for Mr. McGuinness, silly.”
The second Damon had left the shop, I was about to barrel over to that conniving schemer’s mansion when I’d remembered I barely had enough gas to make it to the gas station and not enough funds to fuel up if I ended up having to push it there.
Fortunately, fifteen minutes later Griffin had arrived by car. His laptop had crashed earlier so he’d dropped it off at this place in Rock Lake and stopped by Thai Palace on the way back, getting enough for me too. How thoughtful was that?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.
“Hey! I’m not that bad of a baker. I’m pretty sure I can whip something up that’d turn out both edible and food poisoning-free.”
“I’m not talking about the pie. I meant Clarisse.”
“She lied, Griff. She’s trying to get me in trouble and I deserve to know why. I need answers.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on either but getting them from her isn’t the best way to go about it. I’m
sure you can see that.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to see my own sanity if it plopped in my lap and stared into my eyes. How in the world did Penelope die before I’d talked to her? Was she a ghost, forced to wander the world until her murder was solved?
Was I her only hope for eternal peace?
Yikes. I dropped my head. “How is any of this possible?” I said. “And who is this person who claimed to witness a conversation that never even took place?”
“I don’t know, Samm.”
“That’s who Damon should be focusing on, along with Clarisse. Not me.”
Supposedly, my encounter with Penelope occurred shortly after the two brothers had left the shop the night before. Right. Like I would just wander back outside during a snowstorm to talk to a girl I didn’t know. And then right after that, she winds up dead? According to Damon, the cause of death was still unknown. Either that or he was keeping information to himself.
“Does Penelope have a twin sister?” I asked.
“A sister but not a twin. Why?”
“Do they look alike?”
“No.”
Dang. There went that theory. “Is there anyone else in town who could pass for Penelope? Especially since I’d never seen her before and could be more easily fooled?”
As far as I was concerned, there were only two choices here. Either I’d conversed with a ghost in the alley or someone was impersonating her. What jollies they’d get by doing that was another matter entirely, but I could only handle so many unanswered questions at a time.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said.
“A ghost it is, then,” I muttered.
“What?”
Or not. Despite the small town, Griffin couldn’t possibly know every single person. I set down my takeout container. “Did you know Regina is back?”
I rushed over, ready to slap him on the back because he’d almost choked on his fiery fried rice. He held up a hand to show me he was fine. Good thing too. That stuff wouldn’t have felt too pleasant coming back up.
He set aside his food and took a sip of water. “What?” he breathed out.
“I take it from your reaction you weren’t aware your ex-fiancée is in town.”
“Where’d you hear that from?”
“Penelope. Or her ghost. Or someone pretending to be her.” I tapped my chin. “You know what? I’m leaning more toward an imposter now. A ghost wouldn’t wear tacky bejeweled sunglasses.”
I’d told Griffin my version of the events in the exact order I’d experienced them versus what Damon claimed, and I knew he believed me. But I also knew he worried that the stress of these past few weeks were wearing on me.
He rested his forearms on his knees and leaned forward. “We’ll find her, Sammi. You have to have faith that’ll happen.”
“You bet your eye teeth we’ll find this charlatan. Who does she think she is? Maybe she was the one who killed Penelope.” I smacked my hands together. “I know! She’s probably one of Clarisse’s minions!”
Griffin shook his head softly. “I was talking about Violet.”
“Violet? What does she have to do with this?”
“I know her disappearance has been harder on you than you let on.”
“So… what? You think because I’m not in a good place, I’m imagining everything that’s happening to me?” So much for him believing me.
He sat up straight. “Of course not. Definitely, no. I don’t think that at all. I just… worry about you.”
“I know you do.”
“And we don’t know Penelope was murdered. She could’ve died from natural causes or an accident.”
“Really? After all this freakishness, you think she just had a heart attack shoveling snow or something? Get real. She was a young woman who was in hiding. From your ex-fiancée, I might add. Her death was not an accident or natural.”
I frowned. Unless Pseudo Penelope lied about everything, which was very possible. Ugh.
“That doesn’t make sense, though. She and Regina were good friends. Why would she be afraid of her?”
“It all doesn’t make sense,” I said quietly. “But your brother has it in for me. That much I do know.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“You didn’t see the way he talked to me, looked at me. It was like he was already fitting me for an orange jumpsuit.” A corner of his mouth ticked up. “It’s not funny, Griffin. He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
“Ha.”
“He’s just doing his job. Let me speak to him, okay?”
“What would that achieve? If he’s just doing his job, it’s not like you’re going to be able to convince him that I’m not guilty or mentally deranged on the grounds that you’re his brother.”
“He’s only trying to piece things together. Like we all are.”
The softness in his eyes almost triggered the waterworks. I wasn’t in this alone. I had a lot of people who cared about me, and it was too easy sometimes to forget that. I diverted my gaze before I actually did cry.
“That’s why I need to make an apple pie.” He gave me a questioning look. “There’re things to piece together as you said. Too many things. And if I don’t limit my focus to just one issue at a time, I’ll go bonkers. And right now, making a pie is ground zero. It’s the easiest task to tackle so at least it’ll feel like I’m accomplishing something.”
He just nodded. I couldn’t explain the urge I had to get this pie made. Maybe it was as simple as providing a distraction in a helpless situation, or maybe it was my mom banging around in my head, playing some voodoo mind tricks on me.
Griffin’s phone rang, and he pulled it from his jacket. “Excuse me a sec.”
He got up and walked across the room. Why was he talking so quietly, and why couldn’t he do it right in front of me?
Then I caught the word “Damon.” Enough said.
His body tensed during a bout of hushed arguing, flicking several looks in my direction. He huffed. “Fine… okay… I said, all right.” He faced me. “I’m really sorry. I need to take off for a bit. Will you be okay? If you need me to stay longer, just say the word.”
“Damon doesn’t want you around me. I don’t want to put you in the middle.”
“It’s not like that, Samm.”
“Sure.” I took a deep breath, realizing how childish I sounded. For not wanting to put him in the middle, I was doing exactly that. “No, it’s fine. Really.” I smiled. “I’ll be fine. Do whatever you need to do.” I got up and gave him a hug. “And thank you again for dinner. That was super sweet of you to think of me.”
“I always think of you.”
We made eye contact, and I quickly pulled away. It was not the time to “share a moment.” There was never a good time for that.
I cleared my throat. “Okay, well. We’ll talk again soon.”
“We will.” He turned to leave then caught sight of something on the counter. He went over and picked up the blank book… er, grimoire. “You’ve never liked history before.”
“Huh?”
He paged through it. “Yeah, remember in school how you always complained it was cruel and unusual punishment to be forced to memorize a bunch of facts about dead guys?” He chuckled. “Talk about being dramatic.”
“Huh?”
“Maybe you should’ve taken Mr. Smith’s advice and joined the theater department.” He glanced at the cover. “The Rise and Fall of Mesopotamian Civilization. Not exactly light reading for an anti-history buff.”
My jaw dropped. “Is that what it says?” I enlarged my eyes, squinted, then tried peering out one at a time. It didn’t matter what I did; I still saw a plain black cover.
“Are you okay?” he asked, setting the book down.
“Uh…” I snapped out of it. “Yeah. Um, that’s just Violet’s book. I recently found it in some old box.”
History book?
Huh?
“A-baking we will go, a-baking we w
ill go,” I sang as I put on my coat then hummed the rest, not remembering the words.
Considering the circumstances, I was in a dang good mood. I was off to bake a pie. I’d already cleared it with Clare earlier, and she’d told me to come out whenever I wanted. If she wasn’t there when I arrived, she would be shortly.
It was all settled. Back door unlocked—check. Catzilla locked up—check. Clare’s ‘so good you’ll take down your granny for the last piece’ apple pie recipe printed out and stuck on the fridge—check. She’d been uber-helpful, saving me a trip to the library, among many other things.
I’d woken up that morning with the desire stronger than ever to get this pie baked and delivered to the pub. It wasn’t as if I could’ve done much else right then. I was at a standstill until Damon threw me a bone—or slapped a pair of cuffs on me.
Before walking out the door, I took a second glance at the spellbook. Actually, more like the zillionth one ever since Griffith had left the night before. I still saw nothing. Could he have just been messing with me? But he’d acted so serious. Hmm. Well, there was only one way to find out.
I wrapped the book in a plastic bag to protect it (you know, just in case) and placed it alongside the scarves in my purse. Fernando needed the warmth again since the wacky weather had taken a sixty-degree nosedive from its previous summer-like heat.
Speaking of nosedives… I carefully stepped outside to avoid one myself. All that rain coupled with the freezing temps had turned Bigfoot Bay into a giant ice rink.
I skated over to Elm Street, thankfully not in a hurry, making my way down to the heavily wooded lot at the end of the cul-de-sac. If anyone had told me a mere week before that I’d be returning back to the little crumbling stone gingerbread cottage straight out of a gruesome children’s tale, I would’ve said they were battier than a baseball graveyard.
I slipped between the thick, tall row of pines that lined her lot, recalling the last time I’d done so I’d been clenching a six-inch knife in my hand. Talk about a nightmare on Elm Street… But the past belonged in the past, as I frequently reminded myself.
It was pie-baking day, and I was even looking forward to chatting with Clare. I’d never put her in the same league as Sage or Griffin, but I was comfortable around her enough to get her opinion on a few things. She may very well have some good insights into the whole debacle.