by Anne Tenino
“Well, I couldn’t figure out why police headquarters would have a giant vat of ice water hanging around. Oh well.” She started to remove the drawings. “It was worth a try.”
“So.” Seth turned to Nate, smile wider than ever. “What’s next? I believe I was promised a storage tour.”
Nate laughed and gestured to the exit with a bow. “Right this way, sir. Who needs actors and stuntmen when you could hang out with the real stars of Wolf’s Landing—the breakable sets and props.”
As usual, when Nate picked up Tarkus from Bluewater Bark, he had to practically pry the dog away from Conrad Paulson, one of the three regular kids who’d fallen for Tarkus like a ton of Styrofoam bricks.
“Can’t he stay a little longer, Nate?” Conrad pleaded. “I’m off in twenty minutes. I could walk him home for you.”
“Be serious. It’s almost five miles—double that by the time you got back—and you’ve got school tomorrow.”
“I know, but we were working on a new trick, and he’s almost got it. Come on, Tark. Show him. Army crawl!” Tarkus dropped to his belly and crept forward a few inches, then rolled to his side and whined softly. “See?”
Nate snapped his fingers and Tarkus scrambled to his feet, panting. “Hate to tell you, Conrad, but he’s known how to do that since I got him.”
“Really? But he acted like he didn’t know the command.”
“Hmmm.” Holding Tarkus’s gaze, Nate held out his hand, palm down, then clenched his fist. Tarkus immediately dropped, this time crawling all the way to Nate’s feet before he flopped over, pawing the air feebly in addition to the whine. “He’s really good at faking it.” Nate hunkered down and scratched Tarkus’s belly until the dog half closed his eyes in bliss, one rear paw twitching. “I think he could have given Rin Tin Tin a run for his money.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. See you tomorrow.”
He snapped on Tarkus’s leash, led him out to the parking lot, and opened the door of the Jeep so the dog could hop in and settle down on his blanket in the backseat. He glanced back at the daycare window. Maybe he should take Conrad up on his offer—not to walk so far, but to let Tarkus stay for a little longer. Bluewater Bark had extended hours. Maybe Nate should take advantage of them. Go over to Ma Cougar’s for a drink. Just to unwind—didn’t have anything to do with the fact that Seth would be working the bar.
In a pig’s fricking eye.
For some reason, Nate couldn’t believe that this feeling, this compulsion to be close to Seth, could be real. He had the impulse to keep testing it, poking at it like a sore tooth, to see if repeated exposure would make it fade to the same sexual indifference he felt for everybody else.
Nah. That was just pathetic. Besides, he’d promised Seth he’d research the knife. If he found anything interesting, then he could stop by the bar. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day—no point in seeming too eager. It might give Seth the wrong idea. And inviting him to dinner, then kissing him on the cheek didn’t? Get your head in the game, Albano.
Now if he could just figure out what the alleged game actually was . . .
“Am I out of my mind, Tark?” Tarkus just panted quietly, jaws open in his doggy smile. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
When they got home, he fixed Tarkus’s supper, threw together a salad for himself, and wolfed it down before unpacking the cleaning supplies he’d borrowed from Morgan’s kit. When Seth had entrusted the antique knife to him, Nate had wrapped it in an old T-shirt to protect it until he could read up on the best way to clean mother-of-pearl. Exposing the knife now, his breath caught at the idea that this was a tool someone long dead had used—that Seth’s ancestor had used. According to Seth’s tale of Fennimore’s sensational murder, the man had been stabbed, possibly with a knife just like this one, but the murder weapon was never found, even though they’d hanged that poor Chinese girl for the crime.
For something so old, the knife wasn’t in as rough a shape as it could have been. Yeah, there were scratches on it—some that looked like tiny teeth marks, which fit with where Seth had discovered it. Mostly, though, it just seemed to suffer from an excess of dirt. I can handle that.
Using a brush with soft nylon bristles, he whisked as much of the loose surface dirt away as possible. Then, he used a swab soaked in soapy water to remove the next layer. After he’d rinsed with clear water, he blotted it dry and played a flashlight over the surface. The initials etched into the handle were still inlaid with dirt, but they were a little easier to make out. What they’d thought was an F or possibly a T was actually an E.
He squinted at the other two initials—a C? No, a G. He swabbed the initials again, removing more crusted dirt, because that last letter didn’t look anything like an L.
M. EGM, nothing remotely like FLL—for Fennimore Leroy Larson.
Wait a minute. EGM? The sheriff—Fennimore’s poker buddy, the guy who’d handled the inquest and arrested Adeline, the Larsons’ maid—his name had been Edgar Gaines Monteith. A chill raised the hairs on Nate’s neck. God, was it possible? Could Seth have discovered the murder weapon after all this time?
And if the murder weapon had belonged to the man who’d been in charge of the whole investigation—
“Holy shit.”
Nate raced up the stairs and woke his computer. He’d already spent so much time trolling through the Bluewater Bay historical records that he knew where to look, so he pulled up the newspaper archives and went to work.
Inspired by the drink he’d made his first day for Nate, the Twelve Mile Limit, Seth had been experimenting. Prohibition-era drinks were very popular right now. They had a sense of class that more modern cocktails couldn’t compete with. Still, some updates were in order. And he had one option all ready, as he found out when he went back to check on some of his concoctions in the restaurant’s kitchen.
During a quiet moment, he sprang it on Melanie, dragging her to the wraparound. “It’s called a Mary Pickford, after the silent film actress—”
“I know what a Mary Pickford is.” Melanie’s eye roll was all in her tone of voice.
“—I used a secret ingredient though. Try it.” He nudged the glass closer to her. “G’ahead.”
Her expression was wary, but she at least picked it up, hesitantly sniffing it first. She eyed him over the rim. “I’ll give you my verdict after you help that group that just came in.”
Turning, Seth found Lucas’s father standing near the central taps. “Oh, hey there, Mr. Wilder.” He was with some old logging buddies, all of them retired, gnarled, and lined. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” This wasn’t their typical hangout, but Carl Wilder came in with his family a lot. Judging from the way he was beaming around at his crew, he’d dragged them here himself.
“Told you we’d get good service here. I know the bartender.”
“Everyone knows him. That’s Old Lady Larson’s grandson,” Dick Codger said, pointing a crooked finger toward Seth, wavering it around a couple inches in front of his nose. He had some nerve, calling Grandma “old.”
“We know the bartender at Tiny’s, too. Went to high school with ’im,” grumbled Roger Stoddard.
Ignoring them, Carl spread his hands in the air expansively. “Order whatever you want, boys, it’s all on me.” Amid the mutterings of acceptance that followed his pronouncement, he leaned forward, telling Seth confidentially—in a carrying voice—“It’s been a good harvest season for Savage and Wilder.” He winked, using the whole left side of his face.
Seth smiled at him and tried to ignore how bloodshot his eyes were. “You boys walk here?” He at least needed to be sure of that.
“Don’t you worry, son, none of us are driving. That’s what we got wives for.”
“Dontcha got any Bud Light?” Dick interrupted, squinting at the fancy microbrew tap handles.
It took Seth a while to get the fractious group of aging townies settled—they finally perked up when he suggested a pitcher of Local Logger Lager; that nam
e guaranteed it’d be a hit around here—so of course he had a backlog of drinks from the dining room to make when he was done. It was almost an hour before he spoke to Melanie again.
“Your drink was good,” she said from behind him, reaching past his arm for some clean pint glasses from the dishwasher. “So good, in fact, that I’d let you offer it to customers as an unadvertised special.”
Seth barely stopped himself from whirling around and spraying soda water everywhere. She liked it? But he played it cool, glancing over his shoulder after he’d topped off the highball glass and raising his eyebrows. “You would, huh?”
Her smirk told him she knew how happy that made him, but really, he didn’t mind her knowing. Anyone would think that was cool, wouldn’t they?
“Just tell me again you made your mixer in the restaurant’s kitchen.”
“Definitely.” He even still had his food handler’s license.
His first victim showed up shortly after he got the go-ahead from Mel. It only took him a few seconds to talk Shannon into trying it. “So, you’re experimenting on me? I don’t know . . .” She squinted at him, settling her purse on the empty stool next to her. “I get it on the house, right?”
“You weren’t this picky about that martini you ordered last week,” he teased as he started mixing the drink.
“That’s the same kind of glass.” She pointed at it accusingly. But then she smiled, waving her hand dismissively. “Whatever, I’ll try it. Can’t be worse than vermouth.”
“I’ve been making these mixers—they’re called shrubs.”
“A shrubbery?” she asked, mimicking the accent and intonation of one of the knights from the Monty Python movie. Then she wrinkled her nose at him. “Wait, you can make your own, like, ingredients? For use in the bar?”
“A shrubbery.” He parroted her impersonation before answering. “As long as I do it in the licensed kitchen, I can. Shrubs’re also called ‘drinking vinegars’ because they’re made by mixing sugar and fruit—or some other flavoring—with vinegar and letting them steep together for a while. Days, or weeks.” Honestly, he’d started using this particular one a little earlier than advised, but it had tasted right. She’d like it, he was certain—her flavor profile seemed very sweet and sour to him. “Anyway, this drink—” he paused to concentrate on measuring the rum “—it calls for maraschino cherry liqueur.” As he poured it into the shaker, he glanced up to see the “yuck” squinch everyone made when maraschino cherries were mentioned. “There’s none in here.”
“You used this ‘shrub’ instead?” She lifted her chin to be heard over the sound of the ice clattering around.
Straining the drink into the glass, he nodded. “Yeah, I use this shrub I made—it’s cherry-based, so I figure it’s the same basic thing, plus Dave laughed his ass off when I asked him to buy some maraschino liqueur.”
“Smart man.” She picked up her drink and sipped, then her eyes went so wide he could see the whites of them. “This is good. So good I’ll even pay you for it.”
Warmth flooded his rib cage, as if he’d just saved a cute, wriggling puppy from the pound. But he had to go help other customers, so he couldn’t make her tell him again how great his drink was.
When he made it back to check in on Shannon, someone new was inhabiting the stool formerly claimed by her purse. As the woman turned her head, he recognized Guy Parker’s wife.
“Hey, Elle. What can I get for you?”
“Exactly what she’s having.” Elle hooked a thumb at Shannon’s drink. “Those are awesome. Are you in charge of all the specials?”
“Nah.” He shrugged, hoping his extreme pleasure at people’s reactions wasn’t too obvious, but blood was rushing to his cheeks. Busying himself with her order made it easier to hide.
“I should get the food columnist at the paper to do a piece on you.” Shannon’s voice was slightly rounded, not quite slurring, but not hitting her consonants briskly. He checked, but she hadn’t even finished her drink. Maybe she was tired. She was in Frankenstein wasn’t she? They’d probably just finished rehearsal.
But more importantly— “The Beacon has a food columnist?” He set Elle’s Mary Pickford in front of her.
Shannon made a face. “Not really. Ty—you know, over at Flat Earth—is trying to convince the editor to let him do one, though. Thought I’d help him out.”
It looked like Ty was really branching out. Seth could help with that too, he supposed. Besides, if he ever wanted to leave Bluewater Bay, he’d have a local feature story to put on his résumé.
“Okay, sure. I’ll have to check with management first, though.” Glancing around, he realized he didn’t have anyone waiting to order. “So, how about you? Any interesting stories you’re working on lately?”
She nearly snorted Mary Pickford through her nose, but before she could swallow and answer, something over Seth’s shoulder caught her eye. From her seat she could see the entrance to the restaurant while he had his back to it.
“Oh, hey, there’s that guy helping with Frankenstein,” mused Elle, chin in her hand and focusing the same way Shannon was. “He’s really good-looking.”
A tiny thrill ran up Seth’s spine, but he didn’t turn immediately. He knew though—it had to be Nate, right?
“Nate,” Shannon confirmed, glancing at Elle and smiling in a way that made him uncomfortable. Not like they had any designs on Nate’s person, more like they wanted Seth to have designs on his person.
Biting his tongue to keep from blurting out We’re just friends, he turned to see the man himself. Heading his way, with messed-up hair and a wild, excited look in his eye. As if he’d been out on Sandy Bluff during a winter storm, reveling in the lightning dancing too close to him and the wind beating him around.
So sexy. And moving so fast he was in front of Seth within seconds, lurching to a stop and planting his hands on the counter.
“It wasn’t a T or an F, it’s an E!”
Head whirling from the intensity of Nate’s stare and the force of his entry, Seth tried to make sense of what he’d said. Why the hell would he barrel in like this, as if he had some grand pronouncement, looking into Seth’s eyes the whole time, then come up with something so out of nowhere? What the hell could he even be talking about— Ohhh!
“The knife?”
“The knife,” Nate said a split second after him. “The monogram on the hilt is EGM, which happen to be the initials of the sheriff at the time. The same sheriff who arrested Adeline.”
“What knife?” Shannon butted in. “Who’s Adeline and why was she arrested?”
“Wait, what?” Seth shook his head, ignoring her clear interest and still facing Nate. “It’s really not Fennimore’s?”
He shrugged, smiling lopsidedly. “Does he seem like a guy who’d have someone else’s monogram on his knife?”
“Then how did it get in Grandma’s garage?”
“Hold it, back up. You found some knife in your grandmother’s garage?” Shannon’s tone had become so strident, Seth couldn’t ignore her anymore.
“Yeah.” Still, he kept his focus on Nate. “A very old one, which I thought was my great-great-grandfather’s.”
“Except . . .” Nate’s lopsided smile grew, as did the glimmer of excitement in his eye. “It’s not, and you know what that means? As we say in show biz—” he waggled his eyebrows “—the plot thickens.”
“Oh, I so get it,” Seth breathed, speaking mostly to himself. He one hundred percent understood the thrill of history and genealogy right this second. No boring recitation of family legend by his uncle Kirk had ever made his heart trip along like this. “How do we find out more ab—”
“That!” Shannon crowed, startling Seth so much he almost stumbled, even though he’d been standing still. She hung half-over the bar, her pointy finger stabbing the air with each of her words. “That’s the kind of article I want to write. I need to. For my sanity.”
Clearly. “Hang on.” He threw up his hand, palm out and w
hite bar rag incidentally wrapped around his thumb. Like he was surrendering or something. “I don’t— I mean, would they care? Your readers?” His heart was really thumping away now.
“Town history like this? I’m sure they would. I mean, Fennimore was murdered.”
He hadn’t even mentioned the knife to Grandma yet. And his uncle Kirk would freak out.
Oh, that sounded appealing.
“Well . . .” Glancing over at Nate, he once again got caught by that mischievous gleam in the guy’s eyes, and felt an answering buzz kindling in his own. “We have to do some more research, right?”
Nate nodded, his lips compressed as if he was trying to contain his grin. “Yep. And I could use your help with that.”
“Okay.” His pulse drummed in his ears so loud he couldn’t hear himself speak. They definitely heard him, though, because Shannon whooped and, at the corner of his eye, her fist pumped the air. But he wasn’t looking at her; most of him was focused on Nate and that glowing exhilaration. For a second, he thought the excitement would physically spark between them, arcing over the bar. “I wonder how this’ll go over with the family?”
He barely cared at the moment, not now while he and Nate stood there in silence, as if they could figure out the answer through prolonged eye contact.
“Bartender,” someone called.
Oh, yeah. Damn it. He was at work.
With Seth sitting so close to him, peering over his shoulder at the computer monitor, Nate was having trouble concentrating. Seth wasn’t having the same issue, apparently. His whole attention was focused on the timeline Nate had thrown together last night, his knee bouncing as if he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm, lips parted a little, eyes shining.
Focus, Albano. This is about the story, about something that matters to him, not about your stupid ambivalence.
Nate cleared his throat and used the mouse pointer to indicate each step in Adeline’s doomed journey.
“We got this far last night. Even though there’s no birth certificate, the ledger from the doctor’s office shows the bill for attending the birth.” Nate hesitated, unsure if he’d drawn the right conclusion. Sure, Seth didn’t seem at all sentimental about Fennimore—or have many illusions about him—but the guy was still his ancestor. “We’re both on the same page regarding the likelihood of Adeline’s baby being Fennimore’s, right?”