Written on the Wind

by Cate Dean

  “Let’s get you inside,” he said.

  “I want to wait until I know Mr. Tucker is all right.”

  “Of course.”

  He was so patient with her, and she loved him for it. Her parents had never been patient with anything, except when they had arranged yet another meeting with the administration of an “approved” school for her. Then their patience had no limits—or their demands that Maggie conform. Sometimes she wondered how she survived her childhood.

  “Aunt Irene,” she whispered. And Spencer. They had been her lifeline, what she held onto when things got really bad at home.

  “What was that?” Martin looked down at her.

  “Nothing. Just—thinking out loud.” She smiled. “You should get used to that. I do it a lot.”

  “If you’re worried that it will be an issue, don’t be. I do the same thing.”

  Her smile widened. “Do you argue with yourself out loud?”

  “More than I should. It got quite embarrassing, when I was caught talking out loud in my office.”

  “Try in front of your high school principal, after you’ve been caught by your chemistry teacher switching out certain chemicals. I was in the process of convincing myself I could get away with it when he overheard me.”

  “So, you busted yourself.”

  “Bingo.” She sighed. “My parents grounded me until the end of the year—and it didn’t stop me from talking out loud. I was just careful to make sure I was alone when I did.”

  Martin opened his mouth to respond, and Ian walked back, interrupting them.

  “Patrick Tucker is home, and had been sound asleep, from the way he fumbled through our conversation.”

  Maggie relaxed, glad to know he was safe. That still didn’t explain who she had heard in the bookshop. Maybe they stumbled out the back door—

  “Did you check the back?”

  “Yes.” Ian crossed his arms, amusement on his face. “I checked the loo, and the rest of the shop as well. Any other questions, Maggie?”

  “Sorry.” She hunched her shoulders. “I have to remember that you actually do your job, unlike your predecessor.”

  The amusement faded. “I do.” He stepped past them, and raised his voice. “You can all go on home, now. I’d like to remind you that this is still a crime scene, and no one is to go near it without police escort.” He glanced at Maggie when he said the last part. She could hardly blame him. “If there are any new developments, I will make sure you hear of them.”

  “What about our safety, Reynolds?” Theodore Moody pushed his way through the crowd, more assertive than Maggie had ever seen him. She understood why when she saw Stasia behind him. “We have to live and work on this street, with a murderer running loose!”

  He managed to stir up the dispersing crowd. Most of them came back, muttering louder than before. Ian lifted his chin, his face calm.

  “As long as you don’t open your door to strangers in the middle of the night, Mr. Moody, you will be perfectly safe.”

  “How can you guarantee that? The killer could be standing right here, under your nose!”

  Anger flushed Ian’s face. Before he could respond, Martin laid one hand on his arm.

  “May I?”

  Obviously startled, Ian recovered quickly, and nodded. Maggie watched Martin face her neighbors.

  “I know we are all afraid. One of your own died here, and no one has been brought to justice for that crime.” His deep voice carried as he spoke—and Maggie recognized the tone. It was his documentary voice, the one he used to draw the viewer in, get them to trust him. He had a powerful, mesmerizing presence, and used that to his advantage now. “But I also know that Ian Reynolds will find the murderer, if you give him your support, and trust him, as you always have.”

  Once the crowd started nodding, Theodore backed down, outclassed by Martin. He wore a hoodie, similar to the figure who had tried to attack her. He would have had time to go and change out of the incriminating black before...

  Her thought faded when he turned his head and the hoodie slipped, revealing an ugly bruise on the side of his face.

  The same side Maggie had slammed her purse against less than an hour ago.

  Stasia jerked his hood back in place, whispering furiously to him. She had changed the last few months, from the pleasant, if slightly odd woman Maggie had first met, to someone who lost her temper at the slightest provocation.

  When Martin walked back to her, she took his hand and spoke quietly.

  “Look at Theodore and Stasia, and tell me what you see.”

  She didn’t need to tell him to be discreet; he looked down at his free hand, his gaze sweeping over to them under the pretense of checking his watch. At least, where his watch would have been, if he’d been wearing it.

  “She looks furious,” he muttered. “Not hiding it well. Theodore is—” He stiffened. “He has a bruise on his face. Is it—ˮ

  “In the right spot?” He looked down at her, concern and anger in his eyes. “Yes. Do you think we should tell Ian?”

  “I’ll ring him later, when we can’t be overheard.” He squeezed her hand. “Why don’t you stay with me tonight? It will save you a walk, and I find myself wanting to keep you close after this.”

  “Does this invitation include breakfast?”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “If that is what it takes for you to say yes, then it does.”

  “Breakfast at The Tea Caddy?”

  He lost the battle and smiled at her. “Done.”

  “Then I would love to stay in my own flat, with my non-paying tenant.”

  “That was your idea—ah,” he said, leaning in. “You are teasing me.”

  “Yes, I am. Sometimes, Professor Martin, teasing you is almost as much fun as—”

  He cut her off, kissing her in front of half the shop owners on the high street.

  He may have distracted her, but she planned to have lunch tomorrow at Green Goddess—and take a longer look at Stasia and Theodore Moody.

  Ten

  After Maggie left, Martin spent the morning on a letter he had been struggling with for weeks.

  The local museum had offered him the position of antiquities curator; the position once held by the late Giles Trelawney, one of the unfortunate victims who had stood between Edward Carlisle and his greed.

  Martin had been fighting a battle with himself ever since.

  Part of him wanted the stability, and the guaranteed wage, of a regular job. The larger part—the part of him that relished days in the open, covered in dirt or mud to the elbows, hunting for that elusive find, wanted nothing to do with a mundane job.

  He pushed the letter across the small desk and leaned back in the chair, running one hand through his hair. It was time to think about his future, and what he had to do to ensure it. For him, that future included Maggie.

  If he took the position at the museum, he would be here, a permanent part of this small, tight knit community. Perhaps even accepted as a local. Eventually.

  But every time he pictured himself in the museum, trapped in one of the receiving rooms, or his office, wrangling with one of the many details he knew would come with the position, his chest felt tight, and he had trouble breathing.

  “Time to make a decision, mate,” he muttered. He had put the museum off long enough. They needed a new curator, and Martin felt like he was stringing them along with his silence.

  Instead of the letter, he decided to go in person and give his answer directly to the head of the museum. That answer would be no.

  “I think.” He cursed under his breath, in more than one language. “You need to bloody make up your mind, at least by the time you get there.”

  He figured a quick lunch at Green Goddess would give him the time he needed. As a bonus, he could observe the Moodys. After last night, they had moved to the top of his list, as unpleasant as it was to suspect a woman of such a violent crime.

  Stabbing someone meant getting in close, looking that person i
n the eye as you did it—

  Martin pushed aside the unpleasant memory and readied himself for his visit to the museum.

  ***

  When Martin stepped inside the café, he halted, and shook his head. He should have known Maggie would have the same idea.

  She sat at a table near the window, chatting up the lovely young waitress, Gina. But as he watched her, he noticed her glancing over at Stasia every other minute. The café owner sat in the back, at a small table, furiously scribbling on a pad of paper.

  Her temper from last night was still in evidence, a flush of pink on her otherwise pale face. She also looked as if she hadn’t slept much, if at all. Dark circles underlined her eyes, a detail Martin noticed when she raised her head to glare at her husband after he stopped beside her.

  All was not well with the Moody family.

  Gina strode over to him, a smile on her face. “Good day, Professor. Come for a bit of lunch?”

  He nodded, smiling at Maggie when she jerked around in her chair. With a visible sigh, she waved at Gina. “You can bring him over here.”

  “Not surprised, after what I heard about last night,” Gina said, winking at him. “You are quite the romantic one, Professor.”

  Why she thought it was romantic to kiss outside a crime scene was beyond him. He didn’t have a chance to question; Maggie stood as soon as he reached the table, pulling him down to the chair next to hers.

  “Thanks, Gina. Give us just a minute, then you can come and take his order.” She waited until Gina walked away, then crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?”

  “Eating lunch.” He was at a loss; he had obviously crossed some line, but he didn’t know what, and he didn’t know when he’d done it. “I do that, pretty much every day.”

  Humor did not ease her anger this time. “You’re spying on me, aren’t you? Looking after me, for my own good.”

  “Maggie.” He kept his voice calm, because he understood now what was wrong. “I believe you can look after yourself quite well. I did come in for lunch, before I headed to the museum. If you ask Gina, she will tell you I do eat here often.”

  “Oh.” Her temper deflated, and she looked ashamed. “I’m sorry, Martin. I just—never mind.”

  He took her hand. “You had a flashback, with your parents ‘looking after you’ whether you needed it or not.”

  “Exactly.” Relief edged her voice, and he watched her shoulders gradually relax. “I’ll never get over how much you understand me.”

  “Perhaps because I share a bit of that parental history.” He freed her hand, and draped his arm across the back of her chair. “I was also a rebel, though I paid dearly for it.”

  “You told me a little about your past. But I’d like to hear more. You never talk about your mother.”

  Martin swallowed, pushing back the memories that sprang into his mind at just the mention of her. “I lost my mother at a young age.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry, Martin. I had no idea.” She cradled his cheek, her touch, her warmth, easing his pain. “If you don’t want to talk about her, I understand.”

  “I do. Soon. Today,” he laid his hand over hers and forced a smile. “I would like to have lunch with the woman I am mad about.”

  ***

  Maggie spent her lunch with Martin chatting, trying to get past the wall he put up the second she mentioned his mother.

  Whatever happened must have been incredibly painful for him. She decided that she wouldn’t bring up the subject again. If he wanted to talk about her, Maggie would be happy to listen, but it had to be his choice to talk.

  Since she couldn’t accomplish what she wanted with Martin, she did what she originally came to do—spy on Theodore and Stasia Moody.

  Stasia had been sitting in the back of the café since Maggie walked in, writing on a legal pad. She barely noticed Gina when the waitress asked if she needed anything. Maggie was insanely curious about what Stasia might be writing. She also noticed the same green pen that Gina had been using.

  Just when she was about to give up, and turn back to her lunch, she almost fell out of her chair when Rich walked in from the kitchen.

  “Martin,” she whispered. He was busy enjoying his soup, so she elbowed him as inconspicuously as possible.

  “What the—ˮ

  “Look.”

  She knew the second he saw Rich, who was now bent over Stasia, talking in a low voice. They obviously knew each other, in a more than an ‘acquaintances living in the same town’ way. The conversation turned intense, and their voices rose, loud enough for Maggie and Martin to hear.

  “—told you not to do anything,” Stasia said, jabbing her pen at him.

  “The old man was trying to sell them. I had to do something. If we lose those—ˮ He cut himself off, obviously aware that everyone in the café was watching them. That made Maggie less suspicious. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Rich moved through the tables, headed for the front door. He paused next to Maggie’s table, completely ignoring Martin as he leered at her. “Did you hear the latest, Maggie?” She barely heard what he said—she was too busy staring at the ugly bruises on the left side of his face.

  Could I have been wrong? Rich was so eager to buy the book, but Theodore—

  Rich’s voice raised, like he knew she wasn’t listening, and pulled her attention back to what he was saying. “It seems old man Tucker didn’t lose a thing from the break in.” He made exaggerated finger quotes, and Maggie want to punch him. “I’m thinking—and I’m not the only one—that he staged it, to take suspicion off him. Old fool forgot one thing—he forgot to steal from himself.”

  Rich laughed, slapping the table. Impact nearly dumped Martin’s soup in his lap.

  “Watch it, Rich,” she said.

  “I’m too busy watching you. Looking beautiful today, Maggie.”

  “Back off.” Martin’s voice shot out, low and furious.

  Rich stumbled back, both hands raised. “No offense, mate.”

  “Offense taken, mate.” Martin stood, ignoring Maggie as she tried to pull him down to his chair. “Come near Maggie again, and you will meet my fist, right before you meet the jail cell after I press charges. Are we understood, mate?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Rich rolled his shoulders, tried to play off the scene as a misunderstanding. “Sorry I bent your nose, old man.”

  Maggie stood and gabbed Martin’s arm before he could lunge at Rich. “Time for you to go, Rich. Your continued health is in jeopardy.” He stared at her, his face blank. “Martin’s about to beat you down.”

  He understood that.

  Faster than she expected, he ran through the jumble of tables, knocking more than one over, and shoved the door open. When she turned back, she caught Stasia glaring at her. The woman turned around as soon as she realized Maggie had seen her, and ran straight into Theodore.

  “Get out of my way, will you? Why are you always in my way?” She shoved past him and escaped into the kitchen.

  Theodore stared after her. “I’ll make it right, Stasia. I promise...” His voice faded, and he must have realized he had an audience. He raised his hands, a pained smile on his face. “Please forgive Stasia. She has been involved in a family situation. There will be a discount taken off your bills, for the inconvenience.”

  He ducked into the kitchen, and Maggie waited for the shouting to start. Instead, all she heard was dishes, the occasional sizzle of something hitting the grill, and a fanciful whistling.

  Maggie looked at Martin. He spoke first. “Rich has some suspicious bruising, as well.”

  “If you asked me last night, I would have pointed at Theodore. Now, I’m not so sure. What did you think about Rich and Stasia?”

  “They know each other quite well.”

  “Yeah. I noticed something else, when their heads were close together.” She leaned in and whispered. “They are related.”

  ***

  Maggie wanted to go back to the shop and talk over their new discovery
, but Martin told her he had an appointment at the museum. She kissed him goodbye and headed back to the shop, almost running into Spencer just inside the door.

  “Thinking deep thoughts, Mags?”

  “Spencer—how much do you know about Rich?”

  “That idiot?” He practically snarled, and Maggie stared at him. Spencer liked almost everyone, and the people he only tolerated, he tolerated with good humor. “He’s been living off family money his entire life. The ‘job’ he had with the museum, helping Giles? I found out recently that his father paid a generous donation for them to offer the job to him, and he hardly ever showed up.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything after Rich—I mean, um—ˮ

  “After he jumped you?” Spencer scrubbed at his face, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. “I wanted to kill him, but he skipped, and I was too worried about you to care what happened to him. As long as he wasn’t here, he wasn’t causing harm to my family.”

  She moved in and hugged him. “I’m only partly glad you didn’t kill him.” His chuckle rumbled through her. “Spence—do you think Rich is capable of murder?”

  He pulled back, putting her at arm’s length. “Why? You’re not thinking—ˮ

  “Martin and I overheard a conversation at lunch, over at Green Goddess.” She summarized for him, including the bruises on Rich’s face, and Theodore’s, and how they matched up to her purse attack. “Rich seems to know more about what happened than he’s letting on. And he hinted that the break in was an inside job. That Mr. Tucker did it himself, to throw off suspicion.”

  He boosted himself to the mahogany counter, where he always seemed to do his serious thinking. “Rich Danner is a half-wit, who wouldn’t see the fist coming at his face unless someone pointed it out.”

  Maggie clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh when a customer walked in. “We’ll finish this later,” she whispered.

  Later never came. By the time they closed up, and Maggie counted out the till, Spencer made excuses about being tired. She suspected he had other motives, but she wasn’t going to call him on it. She had her own ideas for what she was going to do tonight, and they involved a diminutive old man who loved books.