by Tess Lake
You could almost see the pattern spread out over time. Always the same deal: the struggle, the fight, the breakup, going to rehab, the resurrection, the fall, the destruction, the tragic death, the memorial. It was almost as if it was stage-managed, with every step along the way twisted to maximize publicity.
Fusion Swan was rich. He clearly benefited from Holt’s death and was making out like crazy representing all that crazy.
I opened a new file up my computer and then sort of stared at nothing while I let all the information swirl around in my mind. There was definitely a story there. I didn’t know who the murderer was, but there was certainly a story about greed, drugs and the untimely deaths of celebrities. There was definitely a story about Fusion Swan also. Had no one noticed his clients dying and how he made much hay out of the fact? I mean, it wasn’t like he was killing them every month or anything like that, but there was a clear pattern. On the other hand, when you represent people who have problems, it’s probably not unusual that some of them die.
I left my blank document and went back to the Internet to look up Preston Jacobs. His was a much lighter story. A North Carolina boy who had grown up on the seaside. His parents had moved around when he was a kid. He’d lived in Harlot Bay back when he was a teenager. Instead of going to college, he’d used money he’d won in a surfing competition to start a sandcastle-building-product company. He’d started with shaped buckets that made castles. It seemed like one of those dumb ideas that clearly hadn’t been. He’d started manufacturing sandcastle buckets and equipment, and it had taken off like crazy. Everywhere there was a beach, there was a Preston Jacobs bucket. At some point, he’d gotten involved with the sculpting world and started sponsoring competitions and giving out prizes and scholarships. His business had expanded and he’d started manufacturing high-end sculpting tools.
He’d escaped Harlot Bay and returned successful. I suddenly felt the stark contrast between us. I’d escaped and had my own story cut abruptly short. I always had the idea that I would leave Harlot Bay, go to college, work in a business, maybe start my own, and then at some point, something good would happen. I knew I might be lost for a long time, not quite sure where I was going, but I’d always been sure I would end up somewhere good. Turns out that where I’d been going was to burn down an apartment building and then return home to recover.
I let those dark thoughts sink in and countered them with my usual responses. My family is here. I love my family even if they annoy me. There is a magical convergence on Harlot Bay and it keeps me grounded, makes me feel good. When I was away I was disconnected from who I truly am, a Slip witch. It was no wonder things went bad. You can only lie to yourself for so long before the cracks become crevices, the crevices become canyons, and the whole thing falls apart. I let the thoughts come and go and then dug into the deaths on the butter-carving circuit. I found a few; one of them was even a former client of Fusion Swan. But there was nothing to tie it back to butter carving or anyone involved with it in any meaningful way. There had been deaths at previous competitions that Preston Jacobs had sponsored, and in those cases they’d found the perpetrators. One was a man who murdered a carver because he thought he was having an affair with his girlfriend. In another, a woman died after being injected with poison. The woman who murdered her proclaimed her innocence, but they’d clearly been romantic rivals for another woman’s affection.
I went back to my document and started typing. I listed a few random points—deaths on the butter-carving circuit, an agent who represented the drug affected and drunks, the money, the prestige and the greed. Holt Everand had been the most recent in a long line of people to die in strange circumstances. At first, all I had was pieces and I couldn’t see the connections. It was like I was standing up on the Harlot Bay Lighthouse and the entire town was covered in fog. At first I could see only a few lights here and there, but eventually the fog cleared away and I could see one street and then another. Soon the patches of dark vanished and I found myself with an article. It didn’t accuse anyone of anything—that was important. I didn’t actually have any evidence that Fusion Swan had killed anyone. For all I knew, he was just a vulture who feasted on the untimely deaths of his clients.
I read through the article a few times, making sure it was fair, accurate, and factual. I didn’t want to get sued. I wanted to be able to report on the untimely deaths of sculptors and the money to be made from representing those with problems. I was pondering whether to publish it that moment or wait a day to see how I felt the next morning when I heard a thumping of feet coming up the stairs. A moment later, Jack appeared in the doorway.
“Harlow Torrent. Hard at work after jumping in a fountain.”
Oh, I’d forgotten that he had been at the Butter Festival. How much had he seen?
“I got a little hot. Had to cool off.”
“Hot? What caused your temperature to rise?” Jack stepped into the office and gave me a look that was very much that of a scoundrel. I stood up from my computer, took a step back and crossed my arms. He was handsome, yes, and he had a grin that was making butterflies jump around my stomach. And yes, he even had some stubble that would be very nice to run my fingers across. But he was a tourist. This is how tourists always appear—sexy, mysterious and transient.
“Can I help you with something?”
“You can—” Jack looked at my screen. He saw that I’d left some windows open about Preston Jacobs, the Butter Festival, and some deaths.
“Ah, so you’re looking into Preston Jacobs? What do you think about all the deaths?”
I walked over to my laptop and closed it.
“I’m more interested in Mr. Fusion Swan at the moment, actually. He represents a lot of people who have died in a lot of unfortunate ways. They often have problems with alcohol . . . and drugs.”
“Really? Do you think he and Preston Jacobs are good friends? Could they be working together?”
He’d taken a step toward me, and I could smell some sort of aftershave. Or maybe it was just him. Something warm, some hint of spice that I couldn’t quite place. Oh no, what had Aunt Cass asked me? Had I smelled cinnamon? I took in a breath through my nose. But it wasn’t cinnamon. It was just . . . male. Male with stubble and those eyes verging on blue and green, a male who knows he’s a little bit gorgeous and uses that to his advantage.
“What’s your interest, exactly? Are you a reporter?”
“You should come out with me.”
The butterflies in my stomach started flitting like crazy.
“You’re a tourist,” I managed to say without my voice squeaking at all.
“You should come out with me, and we can discover whether you and I are good together.”
The butterflies turned into hippopotamuses stomping their way around my body. I took a breath—I could still smell his aftershave or whatever that was—and tried to calm myself.
I shook my head. He was very persistent, but I knew just how to get rid of him.
“Okay, fine. If you’re still here in two weeks, you can take me out on a date.”
Jack stepped forward and held out his hand. I shook it, feeling the tiny rough patches on his skin.
“It’s a deal.”
He smiled at me and then turned back toward the door.
“You should know something, though: you’re a tourist. I live here in Harlot Bay. So there’s not ever going to be a you and me.”
Jack rubbed his stubble, and I found myself suddenly focused on his hands. Strong, rough.
“No,” he said and walked away, heading to the door.
“What? What do you mean, no?”
He stopped in the door and looked back.
“I know you like me. If we go out, you’re going to like me even more. Then what? You’re going to stick with this whole you’re-a-tourist-I-don’t-date-tourists bit? I don’t think so.”
I crossed my arms again, realized I was pushing my cleavage up, and then dropped them to my sides.
“I ca
n take back that date.”
“You shook on it. I’d be very surprised if a North Carolina girl would break a deal. Two weeks.”
He smiled at me and then was gone down the stairs.
I rushed to the window and saw him walking off down the street. He glanced back up at me and grinned to himself when he caught my eye.
Then he turned a corner and was gone.
I found myself overheating again, and this time it had nothing to do with any sort of magical immune response.
Chapter 15
I was working through a whole lot of complicated emotions—ranging from just kiss Jack to cancel that date to what on earth were you thinking?—when Mom called.
As usual, she was already talking when I answered the phone. “. . . can’t put it over there. Tell them to take it around the back.”
“Hello?”
“Oh, Harlow, good, you finally answered. I need you to come to the bakery to collect some food to take home. Your cat is here too. I found him in the pizza oven again. Did you talk to him?”
I heard Adams in the background saying, No, I wasn’t.
“Can’t you guys bring it home? I’m sort of working here.”
“No, Freya and I are going straight to a business seminar after work and Ro has yoga. I need you to come to the Big Pie and pick up the food and your cat as soon as possible, please.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll come now.”
I checked the time and saw that it was already quite late. Between the therapy session with John, following Fusion Swan through the town, witnessing a drug deal, following him to Zero Bend’s house, coming back here, researching and writing an article, and then having Jack visit me, the day had vanished. I took one more look at my article and decided I’d wait a day or two. Maybe I could find out some more information. At least that’s what I told myself. The truth is that most of the time the Harlot Bay Reader consists of puff piece reporting on new shops opening, parks being revitalized, and houses being repainted. Apart from Holt Everand’s murder, this was probably the first time I’d really written anything of substance, and I was a little nervous about letting it out to meet the world.
I locked up and then drove over to the Big Pie Bakery. It’s only four streets away. Big Pie is a moderate-size cafe/bakery with chairs outside for sidewalk dining. When I was within two streets of it, I smelled the delicious food. Some days it was cinnamon sugar drifting over this town in a cloud, sweet and delicious. Other days you could smell crusty bread, fresh from the oven. Sometimes it was pizza.
At this time of day the cafe was mostly empty. There were a few tourists eating snacks or donuts and drinking coffee. In another hour the bakery would close. I pulled up around the rear and went in the back entrance to find my mother and two aunts having a very serious conversation about paint colors.
“Rustic orange gives a warm, comforting feel. We’re restoring the mansion, but we’re not going to be turning it into a palace. We don’t want people to be scared away,” Mom said.
“No, the blue is more inviting,” Freya said. She was kneading dough, and I’m not sure she’d realized that it had probably had enough kneading by now.
Ro turned toward me.
“I think we need to go with bright colors. Make ourselves stand out. Everyone else in town already uses the same style of paint. We need to be different. What do you think?”
I put up my hands.
“I have no opinion on the matter. I’m only here to pick up a cat and whatever baked goods you want to give me.”
“Chicken,” Mom muttered.
Ro pointed to a couple of boxes sitting on the bench.
“We need these taken home and put in the pantry. Not the refrigerator. I repeat, they need to go in the pantry. Okay?”
I went over to the boxes and opened one. Inside were delicious cinnamon donuts sprinkled in sugar.
“Understood. Pantry, not refrigerator.”
I closed the box, but they must have seen me licking my lips.
“These are not for eating. If you want something else, although I don’t think you should have it, there’s food out front,” Mom said, looking me up and down.
I took a look down at my hips and general shape. Perhaps I shouldn’t have a donut.
Counterpoint: have a donut.
Decision made after that well thought-out argument, I went into the front of the bakery and snagged a cinnamon donut. I’ve eaten Big Pie donuts many times and I never get sick of them. The dough is light and just sweet enough. There is a slight crispness to it and the cinnamon sugar is perfectly spiced. The mothers swear they don’t use magic to bake, but we’ve all felt it when we’ve been in the kitchen. It permeates the Big Pie Bakery. I went out to the kitchen to find Adams sitting next to the boxes, sniffing at them.
“And that includes cats!” Freya said.
“I was just looking,” Adams said.
“Okay, buddy, come with me.”
I picked up the boxes and took them out to my car. Adams followed. I put the boxes in the back and Adams sat in the front seat. I called out goodbye to my mom and aunts and then drove home.
It was kind of perfect timing that my mom and Freya were going to a business seminar tonight. That meant they wouldn’t be at home to catch us sneaking out to follow Ro. I’d concocted a whole plan based around us going out and had carefully prepared the lies. Now they weren’t needed.
I drove home, chatting with Adams about cat-related matters. This included topics such as: why wasn’t he allowed to sleep in the pizza oven? Donuts are a good food for cats. Do we have any cheese at home? I told him he isn’t allowed to sleep in the pizza oven because of cat hair on pizza (but I’m very clean!), donuts aren’t really good for cats (but you eat them!) and yes, we have cheese, and I would get him some when we arrived home.
I pulled up at the front of the mansion and took the boxes in through the house and into the pantry. The place was empty. Mom, Freya and Ro were still at work and Aunt Cass was nowhere to be seen. She was probably off selling illegal fireworks or brewing her own liquor or something devious like that. I put the baked goods in the pantry, pondered stealing one, decided not to, and then drove down to the east wing of the house. I gave Adams some cheese and was wondering whether to tell my cousins of my plans to visit Zero Bend alone when they got home.
“Okay, quick meal and then we are ready for Ro to come home so we can follow her,” Molly said immediately.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” Luce asked.
“Of course it’s a good idea. You need intelligence on your enemy,” Molly replied. I silently rolled my eyes behind her back. If she kept going to the library in an effort to appear smart to Oliver, she was really going to be quoting a lot of random things at us.
I told them of the good news that my mom and Freya were going directly to a business seminar in town.
We had a quick dinner—reheated burritos that we had made in bulk a couple of weeks ago and frozen. While we were eating, Ro pulled up at the house and rushed inside.
“Operation Nighthawk is a go,” Molly said, peering out the front window.
“Operation Nighthawk?”
“It’s important to give your strategies important-sounding names. That way people take them seriously.”
“Okay, operation Very Fancy Mustache is a go.” Luce giggled as we joined Molly at the window. If history was any guide, we had about ten minutes before Aunt Ro would leave. She always rushed home, had a quick shower and something to eat, and then rushed out again. As we waited, we quickly went over our plan.
“Wait till she is halfway down the hill and then we follow,” Molly said.
“What if she gets away?” Luce asked.
“She won’t. She always drives really slow going down that hill in the dark.”
“We’ll follow through town, making sure we stay far enough back that she doesn’t see. Although it’s not likely she will see us. We’ll follow her, and she’ll either drive to a yoga class or drive to a lov
e affair. Harlow, make sure to bring your camera,” Molly said.
“My camera? Isn’t it getting a little serious? We’re not collecting evidence for a criminal trial.”
“Yes, we are. In the past, when we have accused them of anything, they’ve made up any kind of answer to get out of it. She can’t argue her way out of a photograph of her walking into Sheriff Hardy’s house.”
“I don’t know, is it going too far?”
Molly didn’t answer me.
“There she goes,” Luce said, tapping the window.
We snuck outside and into Molly’s car. It’s a bit smaller than mine, but also a few years newer, and it doesn’t have that whole dying-on-a-hill problem. Molly drove.
We waited a minute to ensure that Ro was down the hill and then followed. As Molly had predicted, she was driving incredibly slow in the dark. We followed her through town, making sure we kept well back. It was actually quite easy thanks to the Butter Festival’s extra traffic around to hide us. We followed her through the center of town, past the fountain and the town hall, and out the other side into the suburbs.
Ro definitely wasn’t going to a yoga class.
“Does anyone know where Sheriff Hardy lives?” Molly asked.
“I think it’s over here somewhere. Doesn’t he live on a street that has the name of a tree? Like acacia? Or gum?” Luce said.
As with my pursuit of Fusion Swan earlier in the day, as soon as we got out of the main part of town, we were the only car in sight. Molly made sure to stay back, but I think it would have been pretty obvious that we were following Ro if she’d bothered to turn around.