And, hovering over all these things, Tucker.
She sipped her cappuccino and sighed. The night before had taken top honors as the best, worst, and strangest evening of her life. She and Tucker had hardly spoken at all when they broke into Chase’s office to return the laptop and folder, and the conversation on the drive home had been stilted. He didn’t ask to spend the night, she didn’t even consider inviting him in, and the good night kiss at her doorstep had been cautious and awkward. It wasn’t the Sex That Never Happened, Flynn felt pretty confident they’d nipped that in the bud. It was . . .
She dropped her head into her hand and groaned.
It was the crying.
As far as mood-killers go, crying when a man kisses you is right up there at the tippy top. She knew Tucker wanted to know what was wrong, but he wouldn’t ask and she couldn’t tell him. Even now, she wasn’t entirely sure. All she knew was that when she’d kissed him, she’d thought about him going to jail and her going to Boston and had realized that this whatever they had between them was completely, totally, irrevocably doomed. Even if he didn’t go to jail, she couldn’t stay in a town like Shiny for a man she’d known for a millisecond. And there was no other reason to stay, which meant she’d have to leave, and maybe they’d try long distance for a while but the only thing in the world more doomed than a long distance relationship was a Hollywood marriage. Eventually Tucker would move on to live happily ever after with someone like Annabelle and Flynn would spend the rest of her life alone in one of Dad’s antiseptic cookie-cutter condos.
She glanced down into her mug and momentarily regretted throwing out Esther’s peppermint schnapps. This was definitely a drinking-in-your-pajamas–type day. Unfortunately, she was dry, the bar was closed, and there were no liquor stores within walking distance.
She’d checked on that the first day.
She lifted her cup to take another sip when there was a frantic knock at her door. She leaned back into the Nazi love seat and closed her eyes.
“It’s Saturday,” she yelled. “I’m off duty.”
“Flynn Daly, I swear by all that is holy that if you don’t open this door immediately I will kick it down!”
Flynn stared at the door, a small flame of happiness igniting within. She got up and walked over to the door, pulling it open and grinning when she saw the person on the other side.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Flynn said.
Freya answered her with a glare, then stepped in and dumped the three large suitcases she was hauling inside the cottage.
“Oh. My. God. What have you been doing here?”
Flynn glanced around, not sure where to start. The ceramic cows? The lace? Getting shot at?
“So,” Freya began, taking the cappuccino out of Flynn’s hands, “I get home late last night from Tucson to find Dad waiting for me at the airport. The man has never picked up anyone at the airport in his life, so I assume it’s the second coming or a tax audit or something equally catastrophic, but no.” She sat on the love seat and looked up at Flynn. “It’s you.”
Flynn sat next to her. “Me? What’d I do?”
“Beats the hell out of me. All I know is he picks me up, talking about financial reports and missing money—”
“Missing money? What missing money?”
“—and how I have to get on the next train, leaving at seven in the morning, so I can come down here and help you sort out your little disaster.” She took a sip of the cappuccino and motioned toward her luggage. “I didn’t even get a chance to unpack. That second suitcase still has the robes from Tucson.”
“You stole robes from your spa retreat?”
Freya sighed. “It’s not stealing if they charge me, which they will when they do inventory. But the robes? Totally worth it. Anyway.” She clapped a hand down on Flynn’s knee. “So, what the hell is going on here, punkin?”
Flynn rubbed her eyes. “A lot, but nothing with the financials. I mean, I got him the reports yesterday even though my bookkeeper was out.” Flynn tried to keep the mild bitterness out of her voice. “Wasn’t he glad I got him the reports?”
“Glad? Are you kidding? He was totally pissed off. Apparently, there’s some money missing or something and his preferred buyer is bugging him for third quarter financials despite the fact that there are enough records on this place to go back to roughly the beginning of time and—” Freya stopped, glanced at her watch, then looked back at Flynn. “Why aren’t you dressed? It’s one o’clock.”
Flynn sighed. “I think I’m depressed.”
Freya did not look amused. “You’re kidding me with this, right?”
“No. Esther’s been haunting me and I have no idea how to run this place and I killed myself to get those reports to Dad yesterday and he doesn’t even appreciate it.”
“Oh, honey. He appreciates it. He’ll just never say so, because he’s Dad. Do we need to go over this again?”
“No.”
“Good. Now, how are things with your bartender?”
Flynn thought on that for a moment, and decided Freya wasn’t ready for that whole story. “You know, maybe we should talk about that later.”
“Fine. Get in the shower, get dressed, and we’ll go to your office, sort this whole thing out.” She bent her head to sip Flynn’s cappuccino, but froze in mid-sip, her eyes caught on something on the wall. Flynn looked in the direction of her sister’s gaze, then sighed.
“Oh, my God,” Freya said, pointing at the cows. “What the hell are those?”
Jake put his feet up on Gerard Levy’s desk, crossing them at the ankles as he sipped the standard-issue crap-ass police station coffee from a foam cup.
“So, that’s pretty much everything,” Jake said. “The whole mess is yours now. I wash my hands of it.”
Gerard sat back in his cheap, avocado-leather, 1970s office chair. It squeaked like a hedgehog being sadistically violated.
See? Jake thought. Nothing to miss about this place.
“Okay. Try not to get killed in case I need you to testify at trial.”
“I’ll do my best.” Jake pulled his feet down, set the crap coffee on the desk, and leaned forward. “Just one more thing before we officially go back on record.”
Gerard raised an eyebrow. “More breaking and entering? I’m a cop, Jake, not a fucking priest.”
Jake held up one hand. “Just entering. No breaking. She gave me a key, remember?”
Gerard stared Jake down for a long moment, then finally cracked a smile. “What is it?”
“The pan that killed Elaine?”
“Eileen.”
“Whatever. Mercy’s convinced it came from her kitchen, and I’m not one to argue with her.”
Gerard laughed. “I’ve argued with the women in your family. I don’t blame you.”
Jake tapped his fingers on the desk. “Well, I think you might want to look in the direction of the Arms.”
Gerard eyed Jake for a long moment. “Aren’t you in that direction?”
“Generally, yeah. That’s why I’m coming to you, Gerard. When you’re called to testify at my trial, I want it on the record that I was completely forthcoming, just like any innocent man would be.”
Gerard rose one eyebrow. “And this is all off the record, am I right?”
“Well, except for the part about being shot at. I think that should stay on the record.”
Gerard eyed Jake for a while, then came to a decision and leaned forward.
“Preliminary forensic reports show that the blow was probably struck by someone who was right-handed. You’re a lefty, right?”
Jake nodded, surprised by the rush of relief that ran through him. He didn’t seriously think they would take him in for the killing of Eileen-Elaine-Whatever, but apparently some part of him had been anxious about it.
Gerard looked at him. “You’re also over six feet, and based on the angle of the blow, we’re thinking it was someone about six to eight inches shorter than you. You were never a suspect, but i
t was fun to watch you squirm there for a while.”
Jake reached out and tapped Gerard’s desk. “You’re a good man, Levy. Don’t let all that time you’ll be spending in hell make you think any different.”
Jake downed the last of the coffee and tossed the foam cup in the wastebasket next to Gerard’s desk. Gerard stood up and walked around, holding out his hand.
“Thanks for the new information. I’ll start working on that search warrant, and I’ll let you know what happens.”
Jake took his hand and shook. Gerard clamped his other hand over their joined ones and stared Jake in the eye.
“Officially, though,” he said, “don’t leave town.”
Jake chuckled. “You love saying that, don’t you?”
Gerard laughed and released Jake’s hand. “It’s the reason I took the job.”
“The missing money is probably a glitch in the reservations system,” Flynn said, leaning over Freya’s shoulder as they both stared at the front desk computer screen. “Tucker told me he made a reservation once and they lost twelve thousand dollars. That’s why Annabelle was the only one on the system, from what I understood. The second anyone else touched it, the bookkeeping got screwed up.”
Freya leaned back in her seat. “Okay. Well, maybe we can start with the reservations system, then. Where is this Annabelle, anyway?”
Flynn took in a deep breath and stood up straight. “I don’t know. She never showed up yesterday and hasn’t answered her phone since.”
Freya turned slowly in the chair and shot a hard look up at Flynn. “That’s relevant information, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s just a glitch in the system, Fray. Annabelle’s . . .” Flynn paused, trying to figure out how exactly to describe Annabelle. “She’s really . . . perky.”
“Perky people are the most dangerous kind. Never turn your back on a perky person. You know that.” She let out a heavy sigh. “We’ll look for a glitch first, but if we don’t find a reasonable explanation by tomorrow, we’re gonna have to call in the police to investigate perky little Anna-face.”
Flynn smiled. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. We’re still up to our elbows in crap. Even if everything’s on the up and up, it’s no wonder the place isn’t making a profit. Most of the rooms are empty, we’ve only got staff at the front desk from eight to five, Monday through Friday, which is laughable, and we’re paying everyone way too much.”
“You can’t change that. These people do good work because they’re valued, and if you take that away—”
“Flynn, what choice do we have?”
“I don’t know.” Flynn sat on the desk facing her sister. “Build a Web site. Get the reservations system online. Fill the rooms. Get some publicity. George Washington slept here, for Christ’s sake. Eleanor Roosevelt planted the ash tree out in the courtyard. People love that stuff.” She snapped her fingers. “And—oh! When I worked at the bakery, we did catering on the side. Our chef here is amazing, that could totally take off. And we could build in other side businesses. We could . . .” Flynn trailed off at her sister’s expression. “What?”
Freya pushed herself up from the desk. “You know, it’s going to take months to clear all this up, get things where they should be so we can get the full value out of the sale. And we’re heading into winter, which is a slow season for tourism, so at best we won’t see things really pick up until next summer. I’m going to need someone in here immediately to take care of things, get this place back on track.”
Flynn felt disappointment rush through her. She was being replaced. Already.
She looked down at her feet. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
Freya stared at her expectantly. “And?”
Flynn lacked the energy to be tested on her business acumen—or lack thereof—at the moment. “And . . . what? I don’t know. I’m sure you and Dad will find the perfect person and everything will be fine.”
Freya grabbed her purse and pulled out her cigarettes. “I want you on the next train back home, should be tomorrow morning sometime. I’ll clean up here.”
“Oh.” Flynn swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right.”
Freya nodded. “You can have Monday off if you want, but you should spend Tuesday in the office with Dad, get a feel for the place. I should be back by Wednesday, and we can get you really started then.”
“Fine.” Flynn nodded toward the computer. “But what about the thing? With the missing money?”
“I got it, babe. No reason for both of us to suffer out here in the middle of nature’s freakin’ wonderland, right? You go pack.” Freya cocked her head to the side and gave Flynn an evaluating look. “Unless there’s something you think you can do here.”
Flynn stared down at the computer. The screen hosted two reports, side by side, one titled “Accounts Payable—Second Quarter” and the other “Accounts Payable—Third Quarter.” It could have been written in Greek for all she could understand of it.
“No,” Flynn said. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”
“All right.” Freya jerked her head toward the French doors. “I assume you have an outdoor smoking area?”
Flynn tried to hide her surprise. “Yeah. There’s a gazebo with ashtrays out by the west wing.”
“Good.” Freya gave her a defiant look. “What? It brings down the value if people smoke indoors. I only do that in other people’s properties.” She turned toward the doors, her heels clipping against the ancient hardwood, sending the sound bouncing off the walls.
Flynn watched until her sister was out of sight, then sat down at the desk, tapping her nails restlessly against the wood. She didn’t know why she felt so upset. Leaving was the only thing that made sense. Of course Freya wouldn’t have her stay and run the place; she’d run it into the ground. Hell, she’d thought her father was talking about football when he’d mentioned quarters. Leaving was the only thing that made sense. There was only one reason to stay, but she’d only known Tucker for . . .
Her eyes filled quickly and she grabbed for the mouse, absently scrolling through the second quarter report, staring at the names that went by, barely paying attention to them as she remembered the way Tucker had looked at her in the truck the night before.
“Oh, my God, I’m pathetic,” she whispered, reaching out to snatch a tissue from the box on the desk. She swiped at her face, knowing for sure that leaving was the absolute right thing to do. She hadn’t known Tucker long enough to be this affected by him. It was needy, and stupid, and weird, and . . .
Wait a minute. She leaned closer and blinked the last of her tears away, not believing what she was seeing. But there it was, right in front of her.
Gavin P. Krunk. She double-clicked on the record, and the computer whined, then spit up a report. Every quarter for the last three years, the Goodhouse Arms had been paying Gavin P. Krunk almost ten thousand dollars in consulting fees for restoration efforts.
Which didn’t make any sense. There were no restoration projects going on at the Arms, and if there had been, they certainly wouldn’t take three years to complete.
Plus, the consultant was dead. An additional wrinkle.
“Holy shit.” Flynn grabbed the mouse and clicked into the third quarter report. She scrolled through for a while, then discovered that if she clicked on an arrow at the top of the “Payee” column, it organized them alphabetically. She scanned the names; Gavin P. Krunk wasn’t listed.
“Holy shit.”
“Watch your fucking language,” Freya said from behind her. “We have to set the example around here.”
Flynn turned around, her face white. “How much money did you say we were missing?”
Freya crossed her arms over her stomach and shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, something in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars.”
Flynn glanced at the number next to Krunk’s name on the payables report. “Was it maybe nine thousand three hundred and eighty-two dollars and seventy-three cents?”
Flynn hit the print button, and the printer in the corner whirred in response. Freya walked over and stood behind her, looking at the screen.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to call the police,” she said. “I think you were right about perky people.”
Freya put her hand on the back of the chair. “Of course I was right. I’m always right. How much did the bitch steal?”
“About forty thousand a year for three years,” Flynn said, her mind racing as she made the connections. “And, possibly, another fifty grand from somewhere else.”
“Wow.” Freya shrugged. “Gotta hand it to her for ambition.”
“Yeah.” Flynn nibbled her lip, staring at the pages pumping out of the printer as she thought.
Annabelle. Sweet, innocent Annabelle was a thief. And, likely, the author of Rhonda Bacon’s embezzling instructions. The big question now was why.
Freya’s hand landed on Flynn’s shoulder. “Hey.”
Flynn jumped, her mind jerking back to the present moment. “Yeah?”
Freya nodded over her shoulder, in the general direction of the cottage. “Go pack your stuff. I’ll call the police, but we’ll probably have to go in and give statements tonight, so it’s best if you’re all set to go.”
“Oh.” Flynn felt the stab in her heart again as she got up from the desk and forced a big grin. “Okay. I’ll see you back at the cottage later?”
“Hell, no,” Freya said, her eyes on the computer as she reached for the phone. “I’m staying in one of these rooms. That place creeps me out.”
Flynn forced a weak smile and headed out the French doors. She hugged herself against the chill in the air as she crossed the courtyard toward her cottage, feeling oddly hollow, despite the fact that she knew that going back to Boston was the only reasonable thing to do.
She glanced over her shoulder at the Arms as she reached her porch, hearing her father’s voice in her head.
Don’t get attached, Flynn.
It had been good advice. Too bad she hadn’t heeded it.
Crazy in Love Page 20