“Did Matt ever do any work for you?” I asked.
The older man grunted, which I took for a yes.
“Anything odd happen?” I asked. “Go missing?”
“Nothing went missing.” Antoine tucked the money in the breast pocket of his shirt and picked up the abandoned beer mug.
“And no snooping around, I guess.”
Ignoring my question, Antoine walked to the other end of the bar.
I waited. The bartender liked his drama. But to my surprise, he didn't return to drop tidbits of gossip into my eager ears. I finished my drink.
Instead of offering me another, he stayed put at the opposite end of the bar and washed mugs.
“Thanks, Antoine,” I called.
Another grunt.
He really wasn't talking to me. Weird. Antoine loved to gossip. So why wasn't he now?
I retrieved my glass and sidled down the counter. “Are you all right?” I asked.
He didn't look at me. “I'm fine.”
“Because it seems like you're avoiding me. We've been friends for ages, and the bar's not exactly packed.”
He met my gaze, his brown eyes somber. “I guess I was. The thing is, I did know Matt. Know his wife too. And I don't like what's been happening in Doyle. We don't get murders here. At least we didn’t used to.”
“But Doyle does have a history of disappearances,” I said.
“Disappearances?”
“In the woods. Haven't you noticed? A hiker disappears every seven years.” The seven-year cycle was another bit of Doyle weirdness Karin had made me aware of.
“Every seven?” he frowned. “Seems more often than that. People get lost in those woods all the time.”
“Lost, yes,” I said, “but every seven years, a hiker is never found again.”
“People don't respect the mountains.” He flipped a drying cloth over his shoulder. “They think if people are allowed somewhere, it must be safe. That none of the happy forest animals will bother ’em. That a sudden storm will be a romantic adventure and not a death sentence. Respect. You’ve got to respect nature, because nature’s got no respect for you.”
I shifted on the barstool. “I'm worried about Matt's murder. The police have pulled me in for questioning twice now. They still have my truck. I knew the man, but not well enough to kill him. But after what happened earlier this year...” Earlier this year, when I'd been accused of killing Brayden's wife. Of course the police suspected me now. Why wouldn't they? I looked away, studying the unlit jukebox.
“No one who knows you would think you capable of killing Matt Zana.” His expression softened. “And why would you? You were cleared of Alicia's death last summer. The real killer confessed to killing Brayden’s wife.”
“So why did this one use my truck to move Matt’s body? Do you think someone chose it intentionally? That I’d make a good pastsy?”
He smiled, rueful. “I’ll bet they picked it because it was convenient. You never lock that truck. I’ve told you and told you to lock your doors, but you never listen.”
I sighed. And I’d gotten so diligent about locking the doors to Ground and my apartment.
He patted my hand. “You've got nothing to do with this business. Put it out of your mind.”
Like that was possible. “Thanks, Antoine. And from now on, I’ll listen to you.”
He laughed. “Sure you will.”
Grinning, I paid and left.
I walked down the wood plank sidewalk, my footsteps clunking hollowly. The phone in my purse buzzed. I scrabbled for it, pulled it out. Brayden! Thank God. “Hi,” I said, breathless.
“Sorry I missed your calls.” His voice was flat, impersonal, and disappointment ripped through my veins.
“Are you okay? You're out, right? This isn't your one phone call?”
“The police released me an hour ago. I'm at home.”
“I'm on Main Street. I can be there—”
“No, Jayce. If someone sees you—”
“Who's going to see me?”
“It will look bad for us both.”
“That didn’t stop you from coming by Ground today.”
“You were in danger!”
“Was, past tense. Brayden—”
“Coming by Ground was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
I stopped beneath an iron street lamp and clawed my hand across my scalp. My breath misted the night air. “This is ridiculous. We're friends. We're in this together. Wouldn't it be suspicious if we didn't talk to each other?”
“Maybe, but it's too late.”
Too late? What was that supposed to mean? My stomach twisted, and I hunched. “The police told me someone heard you arguing with Matt Zana. Is it true?”
“It was nothing. A misunderstanding.”
“You mean you didn't argue with him?”
“Jayce, drop it.”
“What the hell's going on? I spent hours in the police station today. Did you or did you not get into a fight with Matt Zana?” A light went on above the Karate studio across the street. I lowered my voice. “Brayden, after everything that's happened between us, why can't you tell me what's going on?”
“Because nothing's going on.”
I could hear the lie in his voice, and wet heat burned my eyes. “Matt is dead. The killer used my pickup. I know you didn't kill him, because you were with me—”
He laughed, harsh. “You need evidence?”
“You're not being honest with me. I don't know why, but I do know that.”
“Jayce.” His voice deepened. “I care about you. That's the only reason I'm staying away and asking you to keep your distance. And if I had any idea who killed Matt, I wouldn't let us both twist in the wind, waiting for the police to figure things out on their own.”
“But—”
“Go home, Jayce. We'll talk later.” He hung up.
I stared at my phone.
I went home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Karin typed inside Ground's front window, her long legs crossed. She could have been in a holiday card, holly swagged above her, her legs sheathed in forest-green tights beneath her plaid mini-skirt.
Two men walked past outside, slowing to stare at her through the window.
Intent on whatever she was working on, my sister didn’t notice. She could have been working on a romance novel or a client's will. Her expression was the same whether composing love scenes or legalese. I suspected her presence here this morning had a dual purpose — get some work done and keep an eye on me.
It worried me that she felt she needed to.
Absently, she sipped from an empty coffee cup and set it down.
I walked to her table, removed her cup, filled it, returned it.
Karin didn't respond.
She had to be working on a romance novel. There was no way a will could be that riveting.
“Hey witch, how's it going?” I tugged down the sleeve of my low-cut sapphire sweater.
Her shoulders twitched, and she shot me a look. “I wish you wouldn’t say that in public Someday, people are going to figure out you’re not joking.”
I grinned. “I’ll take that chance.”
She glanced at the clock on the natural brick wall and swore. “Is it after lunch already?”
“Yep. The rush has come and gone.”
She shut the lid of her laptop. “I've got an appointment in twenty minutes, and I wanted to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
She jammed her computer into her ginormous purse — half briefcase, half knitting bag. “Nick said you were at the police station yesterday. What happened?”
“Nick didn't tell you?”
She scowled. “Attorney-client privilege. Did the police find any new information?”
I opened my mouth, shut it. Karin liked Brayden, but she’d blamed him for getting me into trouble before. And I knew how she'd respond if she learned he'd gotten into a dust-up with the murder victim. “The sheriff is digging,” I said. “Br
ayden and I alibi each other, and she doesn’t like it. I think she wants me to be guilty, like that could make up for her accusing me of Alicia's murder last summer.”
Her brow puckered. “Nick has made me swear I'll stay out of it and let him handle your legal case.”
“Not investigate like you did last summer, you mean? It's not a bad idea.”
Her expression turned fierce. “You can't expect these problems to just disappear. Not when...” She glanced about the coffee shop.
A hipster wearing glasses and a ragged beard stared vacantly at his computer.
“Not when there's something more behind this,” Karin whispered. “We need to do something.”
“I am. This isn't last summer. I won't let you or anyone else get hurt on my behalf.”
A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “Lenore and I have an idea about the unseelie problem. Let's talk more later.” She checked her watch.
“Get out of here,” I said. “I promise not to cast any unseelie-finding spells until the three of us come up with a real plan.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Thanks. See you soon.” She rushed out the red front door, the bell jangling in her wake.
I shook my head, not trusting my sister's pledge not to play detective. I couldn't let her get hurt on my behalf again, but I wasn't sure how to convince her I was handling it.
The front door opened, and Darla bustled into the coffee shop. She peeled off her coat and hung it on the hook near the door. Her fair skin was pink, and her chest heaved. “Sorry I'm late. I got a flat tire on the way to the gas station, and—”
“It's okay.” I hadn't even noticed my assistant manager was late. “The lunch crowd has gone.” We only had a few regulars left in the café. The work-from-home crowd typed away on their computers. Mr. Carlyle, an elegant, elderly man sat in a far corner and read the Wall Street Journal.
Darla tugged on the horseshoe charm around her neck. “I don't why I bother wearing this thing. It doesn’t help. I got another flat tire. Bad luck follows wherever I go.”
“The more you believe in bad luck, the more power you give it,” I warned, unable to meet her plaintive gaze. Darla's problems were real, but not even she would believe in a fairy curse.
She shook her blond head. “I'll get to work. Have you taken a lunch break? You must be starving.”
My stomach rumbled. “I guess I am.” I laughed. “I'll be back in an hour.”
“Take your time.”
I trotted upstairs to my apartment, grabbed my blue, wool shawl from off the couch, and arranged it over my shoulders. Eating at home would have made more sense, but something seemed to be driving me outdoors.
Outside my window, the sky was iron gray, threatening rain. I glanced at the umbrella in its stand by the door. Deciding to risk it, I left it there, hurrying downstairs and outside.
I walked quickly. Main Street was quiet (too quiet?), the macadam dark from last night's rain. I stayed close to the old buildings, imagining they had to be radiating some heat. But the shop doors were all closed, trapping the warm air inside.
A shiver raced through me, and I wished I'd brought my coat instead of the shawl. I stopped in a deli and stood in line, pondering my next step. An avocado and sprouts sandwich was in my future. Beyond that, the outlook was murky.
I picked up the sandwich and a bag of chips coated in thick, spicy powder. They were a color orange that could never be found in nature, but I loved the damn things. At a window table overlooking Main, I ripped open the chips and paused, a movement across the street catching my attention.
Rasha Gertner strode into the yarn shop across the street, a red scarf draped over the shoulders of her elegant, black coat. She was friends with Matt’s widow. Maybe she knew something.
Hastily, I dropped the chips into my sandwich bag and hurried outside, stepped into the street.
A horn blared. Crushing the sandwich in my grip, I lurched onto the sidewalk.
A battered red pickup belonging to Malcolm Malone roared past. The middle-aged pharmacist would probably yell at me later. I guess I deserved it.
Grimacing, I checked the road this time before crossing. It was totally, completely empty. I hurried to the yarn shop. Knit gnomes and Christmas trees lined the front window. I stepped inside, and a blast of hot air raised the loose strands of hair around my neck.
Rasha stood before a wooden shelf filled with fat, jewel-colored yarns. She picked up a skein of ruby wool, and cocked her head in thought. Her lustrous ebony hair cascaded over her shoulder.
I grabbed the emerald wool nearby. “Oh, hi Rasha,” I said. “I didn't know you knit.”
Her full lips curved. “Only in the winter. I'm not as dedicated as your sister. Is that for Karin?”
“I thought some yarns might make a nice Christmas gift,” I ad-libbed, loosening my shawl.
“Then I'd suggest getting at least two skeins of the color you choose, or all she'll be able to make are mittens. And that yarn you're holding is too thick for mittens.”
“Thanks. I didn't know that.” Knitting was part of Karin's magic — knots, connections, the ties that bind.
“You're welcome.” Rasha started to turn toward the register, then pivoted back to me. “By the way, I was so sorry about your aunt. You did a good thing keeping her at home. I know how hard it was.”
“Thanks,” I said shortly. To talk about my aunt was to risk getting misty eyed.
“I cared for my mother when she was ill. I was by myself, and it wasn’t easy – having to be on call constantly, and the little things like moving her from her bed. You were lucky to have your sisters’ help.”
“I know. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Nodding, she strode to the register.
Watching Rasha’s straight back, I tried to think of something to say that would pry clues to Matt Zana's murder from her head.
Not a damned thing came to me. What did I know about Rasha? Like me, she and Eric had lived in Doyle their entire lives. But they were a generation older than me – distant enough in age that I hadn't paid much attention to them growing up. Their wedding had been big news. They'd married late in life, after Eric had become a widower, a happy ending for a sad tale.
Abruptly, she turned to me, her long coat flaring about her knees. Twin lines appeared between her dark brows. “About the other day...”
“The other day?” I remembered Melanie’s accusation, and my stomach bunched.
She glanced around the shop, as if making certain we were alone. A trio of sleek, silver-haired grandmothers sat knitting in one corner. They murmured to each other, inaudible. The shop's owner, a woman with carrot-orange hair, stacked a new shipment of yarn at the opposite side of the shop.
“Melanie wasn't herself,” Rasha said. “She didn't mean what she said.”
“I hope she still doesn't think Matt and I had something going on. He installed shelves. That was it.”
“I know, I know. Try not to think about it. My husband and I certainly haven't.”
“With everything that’s happened, it’s impossible not to think about it,” I said in a low voice. “Someone stole my truck and put Matt's body inside. And Melanie — I can’t blame her losing it when I showed up at her door. How do you deal with your husband being murdered?”
“I don't know,” she whispered. “I can't imagine it.”
“Who could have wanted to kill Matt?”
“I don't know that either. Matt liked to keep to himself. He was a private person.”
Chatty Matt? “Private?” I asked, incredulous. “He sure talked a lot when he was installing my shelves.”
Spots of color appeared in her dusky cheeks. “About certain things,” she said in a rush, and I knew she wasn't telling the whole truth.
“What sorts of things?”
She bit her lip.
“Wait, do you mean he kept things from his wife?” I asked. And then I understood – the affairs. No wonder Rasha looked so uncomfortable. But th
at implied she’d known. I cleared my throat. “That's not so unusual, is it? I read that Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward made a point of not sharing everything. They kept some parts of their lives secret to keep their marriage fresh.”
She nodded eagerly. “Right. Matt was just a secretive person. Eric is — was — his best friend, and even he didn't know all that was going on. I don't think Matt meant to keep things from Melanie, but she learned to live with it.”
“But she thought her husband was having an affair.”
She drew breath.
The front door opened, and Eric walked inside in a gray fisherman's sweater and jeans. “You ready?” he asked his wife.
“Just about.” She turned again to the register.
Dammit. What had she been about to say?
The owner bustled behind the counter. “Do you want that yarn wound?”
“Yes,” Rasha said. “Please.”
The owner strung the yarn on a wooden contraption and turned it on. The yarn whirled, spooling.
“Hi, Eric,” I said.
He shifted his weight, his almond-shaped eyes guarded. “Jayce. Nice to see you again, after...”
“Yeah,” I said. After Melanie Zana had accused me of sleeping with her husband. I grabbed another skein of green yarn. Actually, it wouldn't make such a bad Christmas gift for Karin.
“I heard the police called you in for questioning again,” he said.
Crap-ola. Did the whole town know? “They think I might have witnessed something.”
His handsome face creased. “Like what?”
“Like Matt at the Bell and Thistle on the night he died.”
“Did you?”
“Not a glimpse.”
“Do the police have any idea who was responsible?”
“If they do,” I said, “they're not telling me.”
“Huh. I guess they wouldn't.”
“Have they spoken to you?”
He nodded, grim. “They wanted to know where I was that night.”
Rasha joined us, a paper bag clutched in her hand. “Fortunately, Eric was with me. Not that he had any reason to kill Matt.”
Eric's eyes clouded, and he rubbed the scar on his forehead. “Yeah.”
“I'm sure they only wanted to talk to you because you were friends.” My stomach quivered, heavy, a sure sign something was off. “You flip houses. Did you ever use Matt to help with the remodeling?”
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