Ground

by Kirsten Weiss

  “You're lucky you weren't inside.” He glanced around the entryway, but we were alone. “Something else I wasn't able to print, because I'm not supposed to know it,” he said in a low voice. “The doors to your apartment were blocked. Someone had wedged triangles of wood beneath them — you know, like door stoppers?”

  I sucked in a breath. Someone had tried to kill me. They’d really tried to kill me. I'd guessed that as well, but hearing it and guessing it were two different things.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  But he grasped my elbow and led me inside a room packed with desks. Tom sat me behind a battered wooden desk stacked unevenly with documents. The Doyle newspaper was not a paperless office — something I was counting on.

  “So you hadn't heard about the door.” His hand lingered on my arm, then he lowered himself into a rolling, wooden chair across from me.

  I shook my head. “No, and I won't tell anyone you told me. I wish I could give you a scoop in repayment, but I don't have one. I came here looking for information.”

  “About the arson?”

  “That, and the Bell and Thistle.” The fairy might not be my immediate problem, but I needed to do something while my brain set the puzzle pieces into place.

  “The Bell and Thistle?” His dark brows rose, and he braced his elbows on his knees.

  “Your newspaper wrote an article about it on May 21, 1966. It was sort of a retrospective. There was a photo in the article from the 1920s. But the microfiche in the library is damaged, so I couldn't get a good look at the picture. Do you think the paper might still have a copy?”

  He gazed at the battered file cabinets, the paper files piled high on desks, and laughed. “Are you kidding? The publisher won't let us throw anything away. And he doesn't believe in computer files — says one good electromagnetic pulse will wipe ‘em out. One good fire will do the same to paper. Wait here.”

  Rising, he ambled to a collection of file cabinets against the rough, brick wall.

  I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans. Would he have a decent photo? Would it matter if he did?

  He stooped, and a metal drawer screeched. A few minutes later, he returned to me with a manila folder. “Here. We’ve got the original background materials, but not the printed article.”

  I took the folder from him and looked inside. A typed copy of the original article. Clippings from past articles about the Bell and Thistle. The reporter's notes, scrawled in pencil. And a curled photo.

  Holding my breath, I flipped it over. Six people in a row. They wore 1920s era clothing, hats and coats and wide-heeled shoes. I scanned the faces and frowned. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  “I think one of our old-timers does. Just a sec.” He strode to another desk and rummaged through a drawer. “Eureka!” He brandished a rectangular magnifying glass and handed it to me.

  “Thanks.” I looked through it at the photo, and an icicle pierced my core. My fist tightened on the glass’s plastic handle.

  “What's wrong?”

  I swallowed. “Nothing.” Everything. The woman in the photo in the chic dress and flowered hat was Doc Toeller. The woman who'd delivered us. The woman who would have let Lenore die inside our mother, had it not been for a nurse... Acid burned my throat.

  “Hey, let me see.”

  Reluctant, I handed him the photo and glass.

  He squinted at the picture. “It kind of looks like old Doc Toeller. Must be a relative.” He flipped the photo over and frowned. “Usually they write names on the back of the photos, but this is blank. Huh. Think Doc Toeller would like a copy of this?”

  Oh, God no. And short of casting a forgetfullness spell on him — which would be unethical — I didn't know how to stop him from blabbing. “She doesn't strike me as the sort who’s interested in the past,” I said quickly.

  “She's in the Historical Association.”

  Hell. But even if he did show her the photo, he assumed it was a relative. Tom shouldn't be in danger. But if he told her I'd found the picture... Well, Belle/Doc Toeller/whatever was already after us. This couldn’t make the problem worse, could it? “Anyway, I'd like a copy. Can I get one?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him to a photocopy machine, its plastic edges gray with dirt. It hummed and rattled and spat out a paper. I snatched it from the tray, the paper warm from the machine. “Thanks.”

  “If you need anything, anything at all, let me know.” His jaw tightened. “I already miss Ground. We've got to get you back in business.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, what about a fundraiser?”

  “Let's see what the insurance company says first. They’re still processing the claim.”

  “Has the building owner said anything to you about reconstruction?”

  I nodded. I'd called the man yesterday. “He has insurance, so he's ready to rebuild. It's just a matter of getting permits and organizing the construction.”

  “The permits won't be a problem. Doyle's not going to go without its coffee fix.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  He grinned. “You've got the power of the press behind you. Of course I'm right.”

  I thought of all the people who'd helped me salvage things from Ground, and my eyes warmed. Doyle might be fairy cursed and its people not quite human, but they were good people. I was lucky.

  Folding the paper, I stuffed it in the pocket of my borrowed jacket. “Thanks.”

  I hurried outside and walked down Main. The Sunday tourists were out in full force, their noses red from a Saturday on the slopes, wine tasting, or both. A couple walking a blue-eyed husky passed me and smiled. Automatically, I smiled back and kept smiling until I saw the cluster of gawkers outside Ground.

  Veering right, I turned into the alley and approached my coffee shop from the rear. I couldn't blame the town for gawking, but I wanted to be alone with Ground and my thoughts.

  In the alley, a man in a bulky jacket stood staring at the wreckage. My heart skipped a beat. Brayden.

  He turned at the soft echo of my footsteps, his bronzed face worried. “Jayce.” Wordlessly, he pulled me into a hug.

  I rested my head against his chest.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said. “I tried calling you.”

  I didn’t answer. My charger had been in my apartment. My phone was DOA – buying a new charger was just another thing I’d have to deal with.

  “This was intentional,” he growled. “I read the article. It said the investigation was ongoing.”

  “It will be all right.” The sound of his heartbeat was a comforting thump.

  “I should have been here,” he said.

  “You couldn’t have known—”

  “No.” He stepped away from me and laid his broad hands on my shoulders. “I should have been here, with you. It's always been you, and I'm sick of guilt and fear keeping me from the one person I want to be with, the one person I should be supporting. I love you, Jayce.”

  My eyes burned. “I love you too.” And I gave in to reckless Jayce, the Jayce who didn't care about consequences. I kissed him, indulged in the hardness of his lips, in the joy spiraling through me, in the fire burning my mouth.

  Unbidden, magic rose inside me. I could feel the turn of the earth, the wheel of the stars, invisible above us. Everything dropped away, and there was nothing but Brayden. And then I remembered.

  We broke apart, gasping.

  “We shouldn’t,” I said. I’d promised myself this was the end.

  “Why?”

  “You can’t believe in the curse, and I won’t lose you. Not that way.”

  “Jayce, it doesn’t matter,” he said, his green eyes serious. “Don’t you understand? Even if I knew being with you meant I’d be dead in a year, I’d do it.”

  “But if you really believed that—”

  He pulled me into his arms again, his kisses slow, determined.

  “Brayden,” I murmured. He knew, he believed, and he didn’t car
e. “We can't. It's dangerous.”

  “You asked me to trust you,” he said into my ear. “I do. Now trust I know what I want, and I know what I’m doing.”

  Heat blossomed in my chest. I loved him because of his strength and determination. How could I deny him now? “Are you sure?”

  “Never more so.” His lips brushed mine, and my knees trembled. “What are you going to do about this?” He nodded toward the ruined building.

  “I think... it's time we end this.” It was time to face Melanie and this time on my terms.

  He looped an arm over my shoulder and kissed my forehead. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For saying ‘we.’”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Brayden curbed his Jeep's wheels on the steep street, dusted with snow.

  Stepping from the car, I slipped on a patch of ice and grabbed the open door for balance.

  “Careful.” Brayden walked around the Jeep, and I tucked my arm in his, tried not to notice the hard planes of his muscles, his cedar smell.

  The gate to the Zana house stood open, and we walked into the garden. The lavender bushes were powdered white spikes.

  I gripped his arm. We weren’t alone.

  Her back to us, Rasha stood on the front porch. She pounded on the door. “Melanie?” The gray wool slacks and black turtleneck she wore accentuated her tall, slim figure. Her dark hair, up in a loose bun, added to her height. A red, wool scarf draped over her shoulders.

  “She's not home?” I asked, climbing the steps to join her.

  Rasha turned to us. “She should be. We were supposed to meet for lunch. But she's not answering her phone. She's been so depressed after Matt’s… death. You don't think something's happened to her?”

  A chill breeze set the white-dusted lavender swaying, and a cold sliver of worry slipped between my ribs.

  Brayden peered through a window. “I'll check around back.” He hurried down the three steps and around the corner of the house.

  “What are you doing here?” Rasha asked me.

  “We came to check on Melanie,” I said. “She stopped by Ground yesterday.”

  She lowered her head and studied me. “Did she? Why?”

  “Curiosity, I think. The whole town seems to have come to check out the damage.”

  Her mouth crimped. “That fire. Awful. What will you do now?”

  “I'll know by the end of the week.” I tried to peer through a gap in the curtains, but all I saw was an empty lounge chair in the green-carpeted living room. A plaid scarf had been thrown across the chair’s arm. I straightened from the window. “The property owner has hired a contractor to take a look at the building. He's planning on rebuilding, but we don't know how long it will take.”

  “Jayce!” Brayden shouted.

  Glass shattered, and I started.

  Rasha and I raced down the steps and around the corner of the house. We bumped shoulders in a narrow side yard stacked with garden tools, and ran into a grim backyard. A thin layer of snow covered the lawn. Broken glass glittered on the brick patio. One of the tall, sliding glass doors had been broken out.

  Inside the house, Brayden knelt beside Melanie, sprawled on a beige-colored carpet. He pressed two fingers to her neck.

  “Oh, my God,” Rasha said. “Is she okay?”

  “Call nine-one-one,” Brayden said brusquely.

  She turned away and dug in her shiny red purse for a phone.

  I clutched the straps of my own purse. Melanie's skin was pink, so she was still alive. An empty glass lay on the carpet beside her.

  Stomach roiling, I stepped through the broken, glass door, but he shook his head.

  Brayden rose and walked to me. “I think we should wait outside.”

  “But...” Mouth slack, I stared, confused. He was a paramedic. Paramedics didn't walk away from injured people.

  “She's gone.” He put an arm on my elbow and guided me into the backyard.

  “What? That's not possible. She...” Numb, I motioned toward Melanie. Matt’s wife stared, blank, at the ceiling. “But she looks so alive.”

  “Her breath smells like almonds. The flushed skin... I read about this in med school. I think she might have taken poison. Cyanide.”

  “Where would she get cyanide?” I asked, sickened and disbelieving.

  “Apple seeds maybe? I don't know.”

  A siren wailed in the distance.

  Another death. If I’d been faster, more determined, Melanie might not have died.

  “They'll be here right away.” Rasha tucked the phone into her purse. “How is she? Why aren't you working on her?” she demanded.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “She's gone.”

  Sheriff McCourt and two uniformed deputies — Hernandez and Owen — rounded the corner.

  “Where is she?” the sheriff asked.

  I blinked. Even for a small town like Doyle, the appearance of the cops had been suspiciously quick.

  Brayden pointed to the house, and the sheriff walked inside, her boots crunching on the broken glass.

  “Who broke the sliding door?” she barked.

  “I did.” Brayden gestured toward the ragged shards of glass, still clinging to the door’s metal frame. “I thought she might be alive.”

  “You got here quick,” I muttered to Hernandez.

  He shook his head. “We were already on our way,” he said in a low voice.

  “How?” I whispered.

  “We were coming to bring her in.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Rasha reeled away from us and buried her head in her hands. “Mel knew you were coming to arrest her. That’s why she did it!” Her shoulders quaked.

  Uneasy, I rubbed her back. Melanie must have had had the answers all along. If I’d only pressed her, followed up more quickly…

  “You two.” The sheriff nodded to the deputies. “Take the ladies' statements. I'll speak with Mr. Duarte.”

  The deputies separated us, taking Rasha and I to opposite corners of the yard. Staring at the tracks we’d left in the thin snow, I told Hernandez what I'd seen.

  “Why did you come here at all?” he asked.

  I hesitated. “I didn't feel Melanie was guilty, but I suspected she might know something.”

  He grunted. “Looks like your feelings were off.”

  But had they been? “The sheriff thinks it's suicide, doesn't she?”

  On the brick patio, the sheriff spoke with Brayden. He shook his head violently.

  “We can’t jump to conclusions,” the deputy said. “That's why we have autopsies. Come on.” He led me to the patio, where Rasha stood shivering. Brayden removed his thick jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  Had my feelings been off? My sense of wrongness intensified. “This isn't right,” I muttered.

  The deputy’s expression shifted. “What do you mean?”

  I struggled for words. Feelings weren't worth a lot to a cop or to a court. I needed to find my inner Karin and apply some logic. “Matt was a blackmailer — not for money, for favors and a sense of superiority. He had no money. The only way he could have become a partner with Eric was if he'd blackmailed his way into it.”

  “That's not true,” Rasha said.

  “Which part?” I asked. “You told me yourself Matt was flat busted. He was up for a big divorce settlement.”

  “That was just one of the reasons why Mel was depressed,” Rasha said.

  “Melanie struck me as more angry than depressed.” I gazed at the broken glass scattered across the brick patio. A barbeque covered in dust, its lid askew, stood beside a half-dead, potted fern.

  “Which would explain why she killed her husband and his lover,” Hernandez said.

  I shook my head. “But she wasn't the only one with a motive. Matt was blackmailing Eric.”

  Rasha hissed an indrawn breath. “He wasn’t!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but he was, though I couldn't figure out why. The only dark moment I could
find in Eric’s past was that old drunk driving accident that killed his first wife.”

  Rasha raised her chin. “That wasn’t his fault.”

  “I looked into that.” Hernandez nodded. “But Eric's wife had been driving, and it was old news. Literally.”

  “Don't you think that's a little strange though?” I asked. “That his wife was driving? Does Eric strike you as the sort to give up the wheel of a Porsche? What if Eric had been driving? What if he moved his dead wife into the driver's seat?”

  “Speculation,” Hernandez said. “There's no evidence of that.”

  “Have you checked?” I asked. The cold seeped through the soles of my new, almost-sensible shoes.

  “I have,” the sheriff said.

  We turned toward her.

  “One of the officers on the scene believed there was more to the accident than there appeared.” She removed her wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand through her hair. “But he never had enough evidence to prove it. His suspicions remained a note in the file.” She replaced the hat.

  “Matt was on the scene,” I said. “He found Eric on the road that night after the crash. Maybe he saw what Eric had done. Maybe he helped, or even suggested moving Eric’s wife behind the wheel.”

  “My husband wouldn't do that,” Rasha snapped.

  “Does he ever let you drive?” the sheriff asked.

  She opened her mouth, closed it. “Of course.”

  “His sportscar?” McCourt asked.

  “Well, that’s his.”

  “I keep coming back to the old wellhouse property,” I said. “There was so much controversy over it. The Historical Association was suing Eric to keep him from developing the property. Phoebe was on the deed only as a blind for Matt. She told me she thought she was in danger of being arrested because her name was on the deed. What she didn't know was she was in danger of being killed.”

  “My husband has lots of properties.” A vein pulsed in Rasha’s elegant jaw. “As a realtor, Phoebe was useful to him. He had no reason to kill her.”

  “No,” I said. “But you might have.”

  Rasha blanched. “What? That's ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” I asked. “Phoebe told me Matt knew too many things. He'd told her everything, including the truth about Eric’s long ago car accident.” I wasn’t sure about this, but Phoebe had told me Matt knew a lot. “So you killed them both to get them out of your lives. And then, when it looked like the cops might come for Eric — he's an obvious suspect — you pushed me and everyone else toward Melanie. You fed me all that information about the divorce, and Melanie’s fury at Matt. And here you are now, at the scene of her death. You hadn't just arrived, had you? You were leaving after you’d poisoned Melanie. Then you saw us on the sidewalk, and you turned right around and knocked on Melanie's door.”