He opened the throttle fully and slowly they began to make headway. He hoped their gas would last long enough to get out of the deadly current that was trying to push them back. After ten minutes they popped out of the current, and the Zodiac leaped forward. They headed back to the bay where Maggy and the others waited.
56
Rita’s Journal – Second last entry
I’ll never forget the last time we made love. We sailed on the Lady Royal under a full moon through a narrow passage. The wind and current flowed with us, and it felt like we were gliding on air. After anchoring in a beautiful bay, he helped me into a little row boat.
On the way to the shore, Eddie showed me a group of ancient carvings clustered together on a sandstone boulder. One looked like a fish, another like a hunter with a spear. We wandered along a path, past some Garry oak trees and came upon a meadow near the water. That is where he put down the blanket and we made love.
Always a passionate lover, Eddie was even more attentive that night. I felt as if I had entered the world of the spirits with him. Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms and talked in soft voices.
He told me where he had hidden his gold. “I buried it up there by the arbutus with the lovers heart carved into it. I put your name in the heart.”
“You’re always burying it and digging it up again,” I said not wanting to be duped by his charm yet again.
He didn’t answer me.
“Well, why are you telling me this now?”
“There are men who wish to harm me. If I should disappear, I want you to know where it is. I don’t want you to be desperate for money. Whatever they say about me, remember that what we have is real.”
I wanted to believe him. Oh how I wanted to believe him.
57
Love. . . Sing. . . Live. Maggy Malone
When the RCMP called her down to the scene of the crime the next morning, Maggy didn’t know what to expect.
Hundred-foot fir trees dominated the entrance of Drumbeg Park, where First Nations people had gathered for centuries to fish. She never felt alone in magical places like this; she felt part of something larger, not set in time, or even in place. As she walked with Logan and Sasha along the edge of the bay they passed the grove of Garry oaks Rita had talked about in her journal. Following the path, they came to the meadow marked by the sprawling arbutus tree where Brother XII had carved Rita’s name.
She looked around. Hard to believe it was the same place she’d been last night. A shiver stole up her spine. The sun shone, illuminating a magnificent view. To the northeast stood the snow-capped, coastal mountains. Mount Baker in the middle. To the south, only a stone’s throw away, lay Valdes Island. Closer still was Kendrick Island, the tiny land mass that had protected them in the storm. Straight across from where she stood, the channel opened up and she could see the long waterway that extended down the eastern side of Vancouver Island. It was a breath-taking view, ruggedly beautiful and peaceful.
Sasha clung to her father’s hand as they approached the area where Maggy had killed Gilbert. It had been cordoned off by police tape. A constable lifted the tape for them and they approached the hole in the ground. Hunter stood there. His blue eyes, soft and comforting, greeted her like a warm hug. A few feet away a group of three men, two in uniform and one not, stood talking in a circle.
The hole Gilbert had started to dig was now about six feet deep, and beside it was a pile of dirt and a wooden box. They stood together looking at it—the box. All this for a box. Maggy took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Gold?” asked Logan.
A man in a dark-blue trench coat turned towards them. It was Peterson. “Depends how you look at it,” he said. “All I see is a box. Stopping the murderer—that was the gold.” He walked towards them.
So Gravel Voice is a philosopher-cop.
He gave Maggy a weathered smile. “Open the treasure chest. You deserve the first look.”
If there had been a lock, the police had removed it. All she had to do was open it. Maggy crouched and with great care lifted its lid. The rusty hinges groaned as it fell open.
The box was mostly empty. But on the bottom lay a single scroll of paper. Carefully, she lifted it out and read: “Only fools love gold.” It was signed by Brother XII in a fancy, scrolling hand. Maggy started laughing.
She let the paper fall back into the box and stood up.
“Maybe Brother XII was a wise man after all,” said Hunter.
58
Sometimes I hit the wrong note, but I get it right eventually. I trust the music to make it right. Maggy Malone
“What do you want?” Hunter entered her houseboat with one long stride, his face tight, and his voice heavy. “I’ve been giving you space and time, only because you asked me to.”
“I. . . can’t get Gilbert’s face out of my mind. His smell . . . his . . .”
“Death.” Hunter’s eyes held hers. “Maggy, the guy was a scumbag. He killed three men. He deserved to die.”
She sighed. “I just wish it didn’t have to be me.”
“Maggy, sometimes life happens and we don’t always get a choice.”
She shook her head and tears welled in her eyes. “We always have a choice.”
Hunter waited a few seconds and then said, “There’s no point beating yourself up about it.”
“Don’t tell me I’m going to get over it, because I won’t.”
“No, Maggy, you won’t.” He moved closer to her. “It’s only been a couple days. Gil’s death has left a shadow on your heart. You won’t ever forget what happened that night, but you can . . .” He reached for her, but she moved back. “You can learn to live with it.”
Maggy wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not going to let him ruin the rest of my life. I will manage.”
“You’re the strongest and bravest woman I know.”
She looked at a spot on the wall and tried not to let the avalanche of emotion brewing inside her leak out. “I called you over to talk to you about something else.” She ran a hand through her tangled hair. There was no easy way to do this.
“What?” he said in an intimate tone.
Her eyes slid down the wall and fixed on her sink. “Um… It’s my garburator.”
“Your garburator?” His brows rose.
“It’s stuck.” She swallowed her nerves. “It’s too full and . . .”
He shook his head. “Maggy.” The heat of his body, only a foot away from hers, flowed over her like a tropical wave. His Irish-blue eyes met hers with hurricane force. “You don’t have a garburator.”
“Still, it’s stuck. And I can’t seem to . . .”
“Sweet Maggy.” A playful smile crossed his lips. He touched her face gently with his calloused fingertips, sending a primal need for him rippling through her body. She swallowed again. She touched his chest with the palm of her hand, flooding her senses with him. “Hunter, everything’s messed up.”
“The garburator again?” He laughed, but it sounded hollow.
“I don’t want to end things between us.”
“That won’t happen. Ever.” A mischievous smile crossed his lips. “You want me to look at your . . . sink?” He took a strand of her hair and pulled it through his fingers as if he was handling strands of pure gold.
She lifted her chin. Nothing was easy about this. “You mean a lot to me.”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His breath touched her face as he spoke. “Honey, your real problem isn’t your plumbing. It’s your electrical panel.”
“You think I’m crossing wires?”
“Overheating circuits can cause serious trouble.” His voice, steady and low, stirred her in ways she really didn’t want.
“Like sparks.”
He nodded. “And fire.”
“Any suggestions?”
“I could have a look.” His whole hand was in her hair now, pulling her head towards him. His lips were inches from hers. “Make sure everything’s con
nected the way it should be.” His mouth stopped so close to hers. She could smell coffee on his breath. “Then test it.”
She gulped for air. “I bet you could.” She pushed on his chest, giving them more space. At least a respectable quarter inch more. How could she tell him?
“Maggy.” The way he said her name made her heart ache. He wanted her. And she . . …
“Hunter, I’m not ready for you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And I have a relationship with Logan.”
“The garbage again.”
She clenched her jaw. Was there any way to say all that was in her heart without giving him false hope? It wasn’t right. One man, one woman—that’s the way it was supposed to be. But she wasn’t ready to be with Hunter. He was so intense. Their relationship would swallow her whole. Logan was fun and easy. Sex and laughter. That was enough for her for now.
“I’m not ready to love. And the truth is, I may never be ready to love again.”
“You’ve made your decision.” His eyes hardened and her throat constricted.
A stubborn tear flowed down her cheek. “We’re going to run the Black Cat together, and he’s advancing me wages so I can help my mother out.” She swallowed. “We . . . have fun together. It’s not love. It’s not commitment. I’m not ready for that with anyone.”
Their eyes locked, the silence between them heavy and volatile.
After a couple seconds, he said, “I’ll always be here for you.”
“Hunter.”
Without another word he turned and walked away. Her heart sank like a rock into a bottomless pit as he closed the door behind him.
59
Let the Music in. Maggy Malone
When Maggy opened the back door of the bar the cold wind off the sea hit her hard, just as it did the night Jimmy died. The rain had stopped, but the skies were still gray and the air damper than a dungeon cellar. She walked down the narrow steps with Logan behind her. She could hear the team working below. Sounds of ladders moving and people talking greeted them.
“What’s going on?” asked Logan.
“Come see.” She took him by the hand and led him to where Jimmy had died. Two men and three women were painting on the brick wall beside the spot. A couple of them turned and smiled. The smell of fresh paint dominated the narrow space.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Mei organized a group of art students to paint a mural for Jimmy. It’s going to be a picture of the Emerald Empress on the sea, with the mountains in the background.”
“Like my photograph.”
She waited, giving him time.
His eyes widened as he studied the brush strokes. “How did you . . . “
“The guy who owns the building agreed that a mural would help make the alley feel okay again. He liked the picture I showed him and gave me the green light. When the students heard the story they offered to do it for free. They said they could showcase their work. The newspaper’s going to do a feature on them.”
One of the painters, in a blue bandana turned towards them. Mei flashed her lopsided grin. “It’s good karma.” She dipped her brush into the paint can and turned back to the mural.
Maggy touched Logan’s hand. “It all just came together.” As Joe said it would.
Moving closer to her, Logan put his arm around her shoulders. The sun peeked out between the dark clouds and flooded the alley with light. They stood there, in the place where Jimmy had died, and watched its transformation.
THE END
A Note from Jo-Ann Carson
Dear Readers,
“Every time a reader leaves a review an aspiring writer gets a new pencil.”[i]
It may sound like a cheesy-line, but it’s true. Reviews help readers find books. Please take a few minutes and write a review. Don’t be intimidated by the task. I’m not asking for a book report, just a review. All you need to do is string a few words together. If you’re stuck, I’ll give you some examples: 1) I loved Black Cat Blues and can’t wait to read Carson’s next book. Or 2) Black Cat Blues is filled with danger and a touch of the paranormal. I enjoyed it. 3) Sex, intrigue and mystery. A short fun read. The best place to post reviews for me is on Amazon. The next best is Goodreads. I’d love both. Word of mouth and written reviews are pure gold for budding writers, like me.
You can learn about my latest publications from my newsletter (sign up here). Want to connect? My home on the Internet is my Website, which contains all my social media links.
To send me a personal note, you can email me at [email protected]. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the story.
On the next few pages you’ll find information about the other books in the Mata Hari series, and my Vancouver Blues series. As a bonus feature, I have added the first chapter of the next novel in this series, Ain’t Misbehavin’.
Thank you for reading my story.
Jo-Ann
___________________________
[i] Bobby Adair, Ebola K
Ain't Misbehavin' - Chapter One
Maggy Malone gritted her teeth as she scanned the grisly scene in The Tuscan Trattoria. Sirens and flashing lights closed in on the small restaurant. The screams of patrons shredded the tranquility of the night. She swallowed. Another dead person. Inspector Peterson from the Vancouver Police Department strode through the front door took one look around and found her. He headed in her direction. Of course it would be him. She grunted. His eyes cut through the distance between them like razor blades, bringing the memory of the last time she dealt with him back to her with the clout and clarity of a hammer blow between the eyes. He stopped a foot in front of her and nailed her with his cop glare. “Why do men get murdered around you?”
“I wish I knew,” she said. Her heart raced. Ten feet away, a man’s face lay motionless in his plate of spaghetti. Her quiet, Friday dinner had turned into a nightmare.
Joe, her mentor, sat across from her at the white-linen-covered table, holding his glass of merlot in the air. Of all the places they could be . . .why did they end up here? Now? His head swayed to the classical guitar music—“Speak Softly Love,” better known as the “Godfather theme,”—but his jaw firmed in a way she’d only seen once before. Her chest tightened. This excitement would be hard on his heart.
Two constables in uniform threaded yellow tape across half the restaurant where they sat. More sirens blared through the night. The ambulance should be next.
Inspector Peterson motioned for her to get up. She walked with him a few feet away from Joe, making every effort to look normal, even though her legs felt like wobbly bands of rubber.
“Tell me why you’re here.” His gravelly voice brought back many memories. She knew from experience that its quality ranged depending on his mood. It came from somewhere deep in his personal abyss, and sounded so rough it made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up and take notice.
A strand of long blond hair clung to his black dress shirt. Some lucky lady had been leaning on his broad, cop shoulders. Maybe that’s what had made him so cranky. He smelled of expensive French cologne and cigarettes, a scent she remembered too well. When Maggy didn’t answer right away he grumbled to get her attention and gave her his full-powered-cop glare.
“I needed to be alone with Joe,” she said. Murder hadn’t been on the menu. She chose The Tuscan Trattoria to get away from their friends. She loved the place, built in the old grocery warehouse in Gastown, it had an urban-kitschy atmosphere, with old, red-brick walls, rustic, wood ceilings, antiques and artifacts.
The detective nodded. “Why?”
“To talk some sense into him.” She frowned. “He needs to take the meds his doctor prescribes, but he won’t because he says they make him feel tired all the time, and they’re expensive. So, instead he knocks back an herbal concoction three times a day some pretty lady talked him into. It makes him a little crazy. Meanwhile his health isn’t improving.” She looked over at Joe again. He held his glass of wine in th
e air, swirled it like a pro and dipped his nose inside the edge to smell its bouquet. But he didn’t drink it. Instead he repeated the process.
Peterson’s persistent glare brought her eyes back to his like a tractor beam. His six feet towered over her five-foot-four, which made her straighten her back and jut out her chin, as if that somehow equaled the playing field. A jagged purple scar ran across his square jaw.
“I remember Joe,” he said. “Clarence’s cousin, and now one of the owners of the Black Cat Blues Bar where you sing.”
She nodded.
His hazel eyes drifted over to Joe and back to her face, not softening even a smidgen. Cops. “So you’re out with him on a Friday night. What did you do with your other men?”
She exhaled slowly. Men—in the plural. Talk about being judgmental. There had been two men in her life when she last met the detective, but she had chosen one shortly afterwards. Not that it was his, or anyone else’s, business. “I’m here with Joe.” She shook her blond curls out of her face. Curly, long and wild it had a nasty habit of getting in her way, but men loved it and it had become as much her trademark as Dolly Parton’s girls.
Peterson took out his notebook. “So what did you see, Ms. Malone?”
Having been married to a cop for seven years she knew what he wanted. Facts–lots and lots of facts. The people in blue believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that sorting facts into neat columns on white boards could reveal the truth. She admired the simplicity of their plan, but she could never render life into tidy columns. The universe held too many surprises and nothing in her life had ever been logical or lineal. She took a deep breath of the garlic and basil laced air and sighed.
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