by Bonnie Gill
“I’m sorry you turned into that thing. But strange shit happens to you all the time. So, maybe I’m used to it.” Pepper lifted her palms. “It could be worse. Everyone has their demons.” Her smile straightened to a firm line as if her thoughts drifted to another subject.
“I know I attract weird stuff, but tampon genies don’t exist and neither do Jersey Devils. I don’t remember anything after you ran into the house.” She raised her arms, flung her hands in the air, and paced. Tufts of grass flew in her wake.
“Calm down. We’ll figure this thing out.”
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t turn into a flying devil monster. Oh my God, I’m a freak. What if I get captured by one of those traveling freak shows? Oh, what if the government finds out and wants to shove . . . probes up my orifices? This is so not good. I can’t remember anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. It’s like that time I drank too many cosmos at Donna’s party and wore panties on my face and draped a sheet over my shoulders for a Superman cape.”
“You ran around cheering ‘I’m a superhero.’” Pepper wore a grin that granted no-mercy. “Ha! Then you kissed Johnny stinky pits.” Pepper shivered as if the temperature outside dropped twenty degrees.
“I can’t remember any of that night either, but I’m forever haunted by the pictures on social media.” She made sure the end phrase held a silent scolding.
Pepper ignored it. “You were hilarious. You swore you were Cat Woman, and called Carol the Penguin.” She waddled around flapping her elbows. “She does resemble a penguin. Good times.”
Abby ran both hands through her hair, and her fingers hung up in dried leaves and sticky goo. She pulled the clump out and tossed it over her shoulder. “Ew.”
“You had that icky stuff on your clothes too. I think it’s from changing.” Pepper said in a tsk tsk tone. “I burned them.”
“You burned my clothes?”
Pepper gave her one of those what-was-I-supposed-to-do shrugs and raised her palms. “They were torn to scraps and had that “wet fur” smell.” She scrunched up her nose and pinched her lips tight.
Abby slammed her butt into a folding chair so hard it should have collapsed.
“Urgh. The point is, I don’t remember. What if I hurt someone?”
Abby’s body stilled as a squad car pulled up the driveway, gravel crunching and popping under its tires. Her heart bumped and thumped louder than the bass in a dance club before it tried to climb through her throat. She sucked in some air but the oxygen didn’t expand her deflated lungs.
The car door opened and large boots hit the ground. Abby stood as if her name had sounded in a roll call. She let out a deep breath. She was busted. Her gaze traveled up the officer’s long thick legs, to his gladiator-worthy body, then on up to turquoise blue eyes. “Sheriff Stone,” she said under her breath.
Her lips parted. A strong urge to touch his golden blond curls waving from under his sheriff’s hat tugged at her hands.
Pepper raised her eyebrows in an I’m-enjoying-the-view sort-of way.
“Morning, ladies. Do you have a minute?” His deep husky voice dripped over Abby, warm and sweet like honey—before killer bees flew in for attack. He tipped his hat and smiled enough to show a glimpse of healthy, white teeth.
“Well I’ll be darned. You’re the new sheriff?” Pepper asked.
“Yes, Sheriff River Stone. Pleased to meet you.” He reached out and shook her hand. Pepper held on longer than she should have.
He tugged his hand away.
Pepper closed her mouth and licked her lips.
Abby looked away, careful to avoid mentally peeling off his clothes, first his sheriff hat, then his pressed perfect uniform shirt, then . . . River, perfect name for someone who’s current would whoosh you away. She let out a small eep crossed with a sigh.
“I’m Pepper. This is Abby.” Pepper elbowed Abby in the rib cage to gain her attention.
She jumped and swatted Pepper’s arm.
“We’ve met. Nice to see you again, Abby.” He nodded at her, but the nod was a clever decoy. She caught him scanning the area, almost as if his brain catalogued every detail of the yard, cars, and both women.
A large lump the size and consistency of a peach formed in her throat. She swallowed hard, but the clump clung to her tonsils causing an urp noise.
River’s attention darted toward her. “Mrs. Livingston from down the road reported that her husband went missing from a hunting trip last night.” His voice held a speak-now-or-forever-be-locked-up tone.
“I reckon the same thing happened last year. Mr. Livingston decided he wanted to spend some time alone,” Pepper said, and tapped on her chin with her finger.
“Maybe, but his dog returned home, bloody and limping. She’s worried Mr. Livingston is hurt, or that foul play may be involved. Have either of you ladies seen him?” His hand moved across the back of his neck and his shoulders dropped an inch.
Abby threw up a little bit in her mouth. Crappity crap, crap, crap with a dingle berry on top. What if I hurt Mr. Livingston?
“Nope. Haven’t seen him,” Pepper said.
The sheriff pushed up his hat to expose more of his summer-streaked hair. “Did you notice any strange occurrences last night?”
“Nope. Not a thing. Nothing out of the ordinary happened here.” Pepper scratched her nose.
Abby shook her head. She wiped the sweat from her palms on her jeans and pulled out her lip balm.
The sheriff cocked his head and squinted one eye. “You girls wouldn’t lie to me, right?” His lips formed an uneven smile.
“Right, Sheriff. How about a nice glass of iced tea?” Pepper asked, attempting to break up the tension.
“That would be nice, thanks.” His smile lit up his eyes. They twinkled and sparkled when the sun reflected off them.
“Abby?” She motioned to her.
Abby snapped her jaw shut and pried her gaze from River’s seductive eye snare. She followed Pepper up the stairs lickety-split. Rattles accompanied her steps into the house to the kitchen.
They left the sheriff outside.
“Oh my God. What if I hurt or killed Mr. Livingston?” Popping a Tic Tac into her mouth, she walked in a circle around the kitchen shaking her hands by her sides.
Pepper rolled her eyes. “Do you remember encountering a grouchy old man last night?”
“No, but—”
“Well there, you see. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” She patted Abby’s forearm. “Look, you’re a kind soul. You couldn’t hurt anyone, even if you wanted to.” She tossed some ice cubes in a glass then poured the tea. “Causing someone pain is not in that small body of yours. Now go and take the nice sheriff his drink and stop looking guilty.”
“But I have no idea what I did last night as—as that creature.” Her voice shook. Abby was sure she was suffering a nervous breakdown. They would haul her to the insane asylum and wrap her in a nice white jacket then throw her in one of those pillow rooms—until they decided to strap her to a chair and make her sizzle as if she were a bug in a zapper. Oh my God.
Pepper’s brows lowered in concern. “Shh. We’ll figure this out. You won’t change for another month, right?” The phone rang. Pepper handed the tea to her and gave her a nudge toward the waiting sheriff. “Go.” She pointed to the door.
“Alone?”
Chapter 3
River mastered reading the signs of deception long ago and these two women displayed almost every one. Maybe they had nothing to do with the disappearance of Mr. Livingston, but his intuition said the two ladies were up to no good. The taller blonde covered for Abby. Still, Abby’s cute brown curls almost hid her tiny face, the face of an angel—a fallen angel. If he could get her alone without the Amazon, he’d no doubt
coax her into telling the truth. She looked so innocent when he pulled her over yesterday.
White sheets flapped in the light friendly breeze on a clothesline that stretched from an old pine tree to a steel pole. It reminded him of growing up in California. He walked past the giant dinosaur sculpture in the yard—how freaky was that—over to the smoldering ashes in the fire pit. With a long stick, he poked around in the hot embers, denim and a few other scraps of material hid under a burnt log. Someone had tried to burn his or her clothes?
Ever since L.A.M.P.S.—Legends and Myth Police Squad—had reassigned him to Haber Cove to investigate the disappearance of the former missing sheriff, whose place he’d taken, the only calls he received in the past month were to retrieve a jumping Pekinese from a tree. Lord knows how a three-legged dog gets twenty feet in the air. Oh, and he had to write the occasional parking ticket.
Boring.
He’d investigated the missing sheriff’s case and hit nothing but stale ends. Why L.A.M.P.S. got involved in such an investigation was beyond him. If a Cryptid or some other mythical beast were involved, he’d find the monster. That’s what he did. Hell, he’d already captured a Sasquatch and tagged a nest of Thunderbirds this year. L.A.M.P.S. formally honored him as one of their top investigators. He had the email to prove it.
When Mrs. Livingston called to report her husband missing, he had to admit, his adrenalin glands shot out enthusiastic shivers from his toes up to his ears. Two missing person cases in a month’s time? They simply had to be related. Not that he wished anything bad had happened to Mr. Livingston.
Abby stepped out the door carrying a large glass of iced tea. A strange tsh tsh rattle accompanied each step she took, her face paler. Her foot caught on a rock and her small body fell smack dab into his arms, the cold iced beverage splashed across his leg. He wrapped his hands around her thin waist and kept them in place to steady her. She wriggled her body trying to free herself from his grasp, and blushed. “Oh shoot. Sorry about that.”
A sudden craving to explore the silky skin underneath his fingertips surprised him. So soft. Worried that he might crush her delicate body, he loosed his grip and placed her on her feet. “Don’t worry about it. Have you lived here a while?”
“Um, no. I moved in yesterday.” Abby pulled a box of Tic Tacs out of her pocket and popped one into her mouth. Ah ha, the mystery of the rattle was solved.
He raised the half-full glass, toast style. “Welcome to Haber Cove. I’m a transplant myself. Been here about a month.” He took a drink of the sweet tea. The ice cold liquid ran down his throat quenching the thirst that came out of nowhere. Probably the best tea he’d tasted in a long time.
Abby whipped out a tube of Chap Stick and ran it along her bottom lip. A kissable soft plump lip. The more he thought about her mouth, the more he wanted to swipe his tongue over it.
Which bothered him. It was totally unprofessional to think sexual thoughts about someone suspicious, but truthfully, he couldn’t help himself. When he looked at her mouth—leaping one-eyed lizards—he knew where those lips would look best. His pants tightened. To divert her attention, he pointed at the pickup in the driveway.
The yellow truck sported a logo on the door for Pepper’s Perky Pets in blue. In the passenger seat sat a male blow up doll. “I hope she doesn’t use that doll to gain access to the carpool lanes. It’s illegal, you know.”
Abby hesitated then followed River over to the truck. “No. Bob is carjack prevention for Pepper.” She coughed-laughed into her fist. Then smiled. The smile grew revealing her teeth and lighting up her brown eyes to an amber color.
Back to business.
“She named him Bob?” He opened the passenger door, and Bob fell out and flopped to the ground. River grabbed the doll and stuffed him back into the seat and slammed the door. He cleared his throat, took off his hat, and scratched the back of his head. “Um . . . Has she been carjacked before?”
“No, she attributes the success to Bob. Where are you from?” She shoved her hands into her front pockets, which revealed about an inch of smooth stomach skin.
His fingers twitched, yearning for another feel, just a quick touch. “Born and raised in California. My parents were hippies. They named me River and changed our last name to Stone.” Why the hell was he rambling, spilling his life story to the woman he needed to interrogate? What the hell was wrong with him?
Lust. That’s what the hell was wrong.
Pepper came barreling out of the house. River looked up and held in a grin. He’d wager a week’s salary, that one always preferred dramatic entrances. “Hey, sorry about that. I got a phone call from someone wanting to adopt one of the puppies I rescued yesterday.”
“What wonderful news.” Abby’s smile cast a soft inner glow across her face, highlighting her cheeks.
He nodded. “Good news.” Then he switched tracks. “The reason I came over was to let you know that I’m setting up a search party for Mr. Livingston. Would you be able to help?”
“Sure, we’ll help. What time?” Pepper looked at the battered leather watch strapped on her wrist.
River glanced at Abby, waiting for her answer.
“Yeah. Sure.” Her answer held an uncertain, reluctant, and scared tone that prodded his inner creature of suspicion, waking it from sleepy to lets-go-hunt.
Something was up with Abby.
Whatever the pretty little nymph was hiding he’d discover it. Right after they found Mr. Livingston; if they found Mr. Livingston.
Maybe he should ask her out? Yep. His deep down voice told him, if he could get her alone he would get the scoop. First, though, he’d verify her single status.
“Everyone is meeting at the Livingston’s ranch at three p.m. What about that guy?” He pointed to a silhouette of a man sitting in the third floor window. “Could he help? We need all the manpower we could get.”
Abby burst out laughing. A delicate shade of pale pink draped over her face, which made her light freckles darken a shade.
“Oh, is that another Bob?” His voice broke like Peter Brady’s in the Brady Bunch song “Time to Change.” What was it with these women and blow up dolls?
Pepper grinned wide. “No, that’s Arnold. He’s a mannequin. I usually live alone. A girl has to take all the precautions she can.”
He nodded toward the window. “Wouldn’t a house alarm be better?”
“So far the home alone,” she made quotation signs in the air with her fingers, “technique has worked pretty well. People think I have company.”
Or she could be Norman Bates’ sister. Or, could the alleged mannequin be Mr. Livingston?
River walked over to the fire pit and poked around in the ashes until a swatch of the denim snagged on the stick. He raised the suspicious material and gestured to Pepper and Abby. “Can you two come over here a minute?”
Both women walked over to him. Abby’s lips disappeared in her mouth, and her eyes grew in the uh-oh way.
Protectiveness surged through him. For some reason he wanted to gather Abby in his arms, stroke those brown curls, and tell her it would be all right. He wanted to make whatever was bothering her better. Whatever she’d done, she couldn’t have done it on purpose. It must have been an accident.
The two women stopped beside him and observed the scrap of material on the stick.
Pepper scratched her elbow. “The funniest thing happened. Abby was cleaning the horse stables and the wheelbarrow of manure fell over on her. Her clothes stunk so bad we had to burn them.”
River fought his frown and wore his neutral facemask. Bullshit not horse shit.
“Is that what happened, Abby?”
She nodded. “For some reason, I’ve been attracting shit lately.” Her voice flat-lined with defeat.
“Yep, if I wanted to catch flies I’d use Abby as bait.” Pep
per’s southern accent became thicker before she let out a laugh bordering on nervous and irritating but leaned more toward downright annoying.
River studied the two women’s actions. Abby didn’t confirm Pepper’s story, nor deny it. Both fidgeted. “What were you girls up to last night?”
“What do you mean?” Abby twirled a curl between two fingers, her eyes innocent and bright.
“We sat by the campfire most the night, made s’mores, and caught up on girl talk,” Pepper said.
“You mean to tell me you both stayed in on a Saturday night? No dates?”
They both shrugged as if it was not out of the ordinary.
He held back on any further questions for two reasons. First, Mr. Livingston might still be alive, and second, he wasn’t sure they were guilty of any crime.
One thing was for certain, he would find out what these two ladies were hiding.
Chapter 4
River pulled his white and black Chevrolet Impala squad car into the Livingston’s driveway. A group of thirty people waited in the front yard talking and mingling and drinking tea. Mrs. Livingston, a silver-haired seventy-year old, dressed in a calf-length black taffeta dress with matching hat and frilly veil beckoned River to come with a single wave of her hand.
River stepped out of the vehicle and strolled down the cement walkway. “Mrs. Livingston, why are you wearing funeral clothes? Most likely your husband is still alive.” The woman was either seeking attention or she knew he wasn’t returning home.
“Oh, I just know my poor Harold couldn’t survive this long alone in the woods. He’s been sick you know.” She dabbed at her tearless eyes with her white lace hanky.