Fangs and Frenemies

by Cherry Andrews

  It was usually me, even when things weren’t my fault.

  “Haze, I have an idea,” Bryson said, calmly as ever. “Why don’t you become part of my family? Then all of our cool traditions will be yours, too.”

  I stopped, frowning. “What?”

  He smiled mysteriously. “I was gonna wait, at least till the holidays . . . but screw it. This feels right.” He jumped up off the couch we were sitting on and quickly grabbed something from his desk drawer. A small black velvet box.

  Oh my God. “Is this really happening?”

  “This was my grandmother’s.” He opened the box to reveal a delicately filigreed gold ring.

  “Bryson . . . oh my God I’m going to hyperventilate!”

  “But in a good way, right?”

  “I guess!” I gasped.

  He dropped to one knee, the ring in his steady hand. “Will you marry me, Hazel Greenwood?”

  “So how’d that go?” Max demanded when I returned to the car, dazed, ten minutes later. “Did you give him the third degree, or did you Hazel-out and give him a big old hug?”

  “I did not ‘Hazel-out.’” Blushing, I covered my newly-shining ring finger with my sleeve. After I’d said yes, there’d been some kissing. He may have dipped me over the therapy couch, which, being a touch transgressive, gave me a major thrill. “I’ll have you know I grilled him, like a . . . like a very comforting cheese sandwich. And you know what? He had a great alibi. I’m convinced he would never hurt Ashlee or anyone else.”

  “Oh? Care to share your good news with me?”

  “Good news?” I stammered. How’d she know?!

  “His abili. Man, you’re acting squirrelly.”

  “Am not.” I shrank away from her narrowed gaze.

  “I assume I’m driving you to the police station for your interview?”

  “Yes.” I straightened my posture. “You were right about them being about to call, thanks for the heads up.”

  “Mm-hmm. You’re welcome.”

  Two miles of silence.

  “All right, fine.” I had to drop her a bone. “I shouldn’t tell you this but, Bryson is Ashlee’s . . . therapist.”

  Max snorted. “Ashlee and her friends are the reason other people get therapists.”

  “I know, right? But apparently she’s got issues, too.”

  “Who cares about her pain?” Suddenly Max sounded enraged. A vein had popped out of her neck. I didn’t realize she still hated Ashlee that much.

  For a split second, I was transported back to senior year. The way we used to stick close together, against mean Ashlee and her friends. We walked to class together every day. Ate lunch together. Laughed together.

  I was seconds away from blurting out everything: my ring, the sudden proposal, Java Kitty, my problems with Gran . . . when Max pulled into the police station lot.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” she said. “Good luck.”

  This day was moving way too fast.

  Chapter 7

  Sheriff Gantry was a hawk-nosed man with white wispy hair, perfectly ironed uniforms, and a suspicious gaze. Before his defection from Sage’s Bakery, his usual order was a double latte to wash down his sausage and bacon breakfast sandwich. (Yes, a double meat sandwich. No, it wasn’t on our menu. We made it just for him.)

  But even back when I saw him every single morning, I’d never felt comfortable around the guy.

  He had a habit of not quite finishing his sentences that always made me feel tense. Like it was my responsibility to guess what he was driving at.

  Or die waiting for him to get there on his own.

  “Thank you for coming in at your earliest convenience, Miss Greenwood. I’m sure you understand the utmost seriousness . . . ”

  “Of the situation?” I finished for him, leaning forward.

  “I’m going to ask you a lot of questions and I want you to think carefully before . . . ”

  “I answer?”

  “First question.” Sheriff Gantry steepled his hands and looked at me appraisingly. “Have you ever thought about chopping your hair into a pixie cut, with a purple side-hawk?”

  I blinked. “No!”

  “Not even just now when I brought I up?”

  “Well, sure. But I wasn’t seriously consider—”

  “I’ll correct your earlier response.” With a smug nod, he made a mark on his notebook.

  “Ok, whatever, this is dumb,” I muttered.

  “How long have you been dating Mr. Goodman?”

  I sat up. A real question. “Three months. Since the end of summer.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “He walked in for a latte on a Sunday morning, extra foam.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “Snagged the last chocolate almond croissant, and then asked me for a date. He was the best-looking guy who’d walked in all week,” I added. “Though the competition’s never steep. Our branding can be overly feminine, which I’ve recently read is off-putting to some male customers.”

  Gantry’s pen hovered over his notebook, like he didn’t know what to do with all that. Ramble mode. It was back, with a vengeance. I’d never been interviewed by law enforcement before and there was something hypnotic about the recorder on the table between us, the bitter smell of black coffee in paper cups.

  “You don’t have to write all that,” I said, wincing. “Anyway, he’d just moved to town from back east—”

  “From where, exactly?” His pen hovered over the page.

  I frowned, realizing I wasn’t certain. Bryson always just said “back east.” My mind flashed back to an old family photo I’d seen on his wall, of two cute kids sledding who I assumed were him and his brother. “Somewhere snowy, I think.”

  Gantry gave me an odd look, and I suddenly realized why. I was coming off like a moron. “So you really have no clue where he’s from.”

  I sighed. “Correct.” Why had I been content to know so little about my boyfriend? Make that fiancé.

  “And? What was his connection to the Blue Moon Bay area?” Gantry prompted me.

  “Oh!” Finally I had a good answer for something. “He had a feeling something wonderful was waiting for him here. Like, destiny.”

  “Destiny?” Gantry looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  Too late I realized Bryson’s inspired words sounded tinny and lame coming out of my mouth. I felt my face flush. Mental note: pin Bryson down on his background ASAP.

  The more we talked about Bryson the less I realized I knew about him. Was that weird? A romantic would say no. A detective would say yes. I was sitting across from a detective and he definitely thought I was a moron.

  “Um, why is this relevant anyway?” I asked.

  “Never know what might turn out to be relevant. He’s not a True Mooner so what drove him to move out here, hang up his shrink shingle, and suddenly get involved with a local . . . well, you know . . . a local . . . ” He coughed.

  “What? Old maid? Spinster?” I held up my beautiful gold ring like a talisman against any sexist name-calling. “What were you going to call me? Oh. A local baker, duh.” That was embarrassing.

  Worse, Gantry’s weaselly gaze had lit on my ring. “My, my. Three months is a wee bit early for a proposal. When’s the baby due?”

  “Excuse me? I am not pregnant.”

  “You sure?” He gave me a look.

  “Oh for gosh sakes, we’ve been doing a lot of takeout dinners lately,” I sputtered, sliding into ramble mode. “And we split desserts sometimes. A lot. I probably eat the lion’s share, if it’s one with chocolate. I’ve barely gained three pounds.”

  He retreated to his notebook. “Let’s go back to Goodman’s reasons for moving to town. Does he have family in the Oregon . . . ”

  “Coastal area? Not that I know of.”

  “How about . . . ”

  “Friends? No. But that’s not weird,” I hastened to add. “Who even has friends nowadays? Everyone’s so busy with wor
k, their kids, their side hustle. I don’t even take it personally when people flake on plans. Or make excuses. Or don’t call me back for ten years because—“

  “Thank you, that’ll do, Miss Greenwood.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s refocus on Mr. Goodman and his odd scheme to pick up stakes and move to a random small town, on a whim. Where he ends up being the last person to see a beautiful, wealthy young bride before she . . . ”

  “Disappears without a trace.” My fists felt hot suddenly. It was one thing for Gantry to take condescending potshots at me, it was another for him to target Bryson. “I wasn’t aware that moving to Blue Moon Bay was against the law. You might want to inform the dozens of newcomers who show up on impulse every year!”

  What I didn’t add—didn’t want to think about—was that few of those people stayed. Blue Moon Bay was a phase for divorcees, widowers, and those recovering from the rat race. They always said the same sorts of things, like that the pounding waves on the rocks improved their yoga high. The gentle cloudy skies rejuvenated their souls. Frankly they sounded like cult members. Or drug addicts. But this town was small and cliquish, and when tourist season died down the winters—while mild—were gray with little respite from November to March. Inevitably, after a year or two of “soul rehab” most of those converts got married or rejoined the rat race, leaving Blue Moon Bay in their dust without so much as a postcard. Locals knew better than to befriend anyone who hadn’t been through one winter. Preferably two.

  Normally I knew better, too. But I’d made an exception for Bryson. He wasn’t like the typical tourist. He didn’t gush over Blue Moon Bay. He gushed over me.

  “There’s nothing crazy about the idea of someone falling in love with me,” I asserted, feeling the tiniest bit defensive of my own appeal. “Or the idea of moving to a picturesque little town for a fresh start.” Immediately I wished I hadn’t picked those words.

  Sheriff Gantry seized on them. “A fresh start? From what? Did Mr. Crocker have a past? A history of drugs, crime?”

  I swallowed. “Of course not!” Ok, so he’d lied about knowing Ashlee. And needing to work on the day of the wedding, and knowing Ashlee. But I understood why he had to.

  If grudgingly.

  “So let me get this straight.” Gantry’s smile was more of a triumphant sneer. “Guy moves out here without knowing a soul, just to get a fresh start, and within three months he’s engaged to a local . . . ”

  “Baker,” I filled in. “An adorable local baker, with great hair and a sparkling personality. That’s what you were going to say right? And he’s not just some guy,” I plowed ahead before he could respond. “He’s a top-notch, skilled therapist.”

  “Is he? Looks like he got his degree online. Just last year.”

  “What?” That was news to me, but I rallied quickly. “I mean . . . so what? Are we really going to engage in a debate about computers versus classrooms?” I tried not to think about the couple he’d happily waved away toward divorce court. Maybe their marriage was cursed. “He’s an asset to our town.”

  “Yes, he seems to have been quite therapeutic for Ashlee Kensington.”

  My hands felt clammy suddenly. I didn’t like his tone, or what he was implying. “Bryson wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s all about helping people.”

  “Our investigation will reveal the truth.” Gantry closed his notebook. “I pray that Ashlee is still alive to tell us exactly what she thought of Mr. Goodman’s therapy techniques.”

  I stared at him. Was it possible Gantry was trying to build a case against Bryson out of thin air? But why?

  I dug through my purse for one of Grandma Sage’s homemade toffee chews. I kept a few on hand just for emergencies like this. They contained a drop of—well, you couldn’t call it truth serum. It was more like . . . ramble juice. A filter remover. If someone was determined to lie, they’d lie. But if they were simply caught off guard, they’d likely give something away before the effect wore off. “Toffee chew?”

  Too late I wondered if I shouldn’t have provided one of these in bacon form. But luckily Sheriff Gantry had no qualms about carbs. He gobbled the treat almost before I could frame the question in my mind.

  “Mmm, that’s good. May not be pretty but you sure can bake.”

  So, the effects had already begun. “Sheriff, why are you trying to build a case against my guy?”

  He smiled dreamily. “Oh, well, it’s because we just don’t have any idea what really happened to that girl.”

  Seriously? I leaned in. “Why not do some police work?”

  “That’s too hard. Takes too long. And her family’s rich, so they’re going to want swift . . . ”

  “Justice?” Unbelievable. Had the sheriff always been corrupt and incompetent, and I’d only now noticed?

  “Er . . . ?” Gantry shook his head and looked confused for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d really just said all that. As if to steady himself, he reached for his coffee cup. “That’ll be all, Miss Greenwood. I have other interviews to conduct.”

  “Conduct! Oh, you already said that.” I rose and stormed out, angry tears stinging my eyes.

  “Hazel?” Elliot, Sheriff Gantry’s deputy, caught up with me in the hallway. “You look upset. Let me walk you out.” His voice was low—solidly it the bass range—and gravelly. Like how I imagined the Marlboro Man’s voice would sound, except Elliot didn’t smoke as far as I knew. “The sheriff can be overzealous when he’s working on an investigation as serious as this, but I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Really, why not?” Elliot’s intelligent brown gaze was so steady that looking into it actually made me feel better. A tiny bit better. “Are you saying you trust Sheriff Gantry to do the right thing in the end?”

  “Oh, no. Gantry’s corrupt as all get out.”

  His admission stunned me even if the facts of the matter didn't. “But . . . then . . . ” I stammered. “You think Ashlee will turn up soon?”

  She’d have some ‘splaining to do, but at this point I’d be willing to bake a Welcome Home cake for the b—

  “Oh, no, she’s probably dead,” Elliot said, and my heart skipped over that word. Dead. Murdered. “It’s just that when it comes to possible suspects, your boyfriend is at least fourth down on the list.”

  I tried to digest all that. It was heavy stuff. “All right.” I gulped. “Who’s first on the list?”

  “Her husband, Drew Kensington. The husband is always suspect number one.”

  “What about numbers two and three?”

  Elliot’s square-jawed face remained blank. “Now surely you know that’s classified info.”

  “Bet you’d tell Max, though,” I muttered.

  “Yeah.” Elliot didn’t hesitate. “You’re right, I would.”

  For as long as I could remember, Elliot James had had a crush on Max. Three years ahead of us in school, he’d been a quiet loner of a teenage boy, a beanpole in a black leather jacket that matched his raven hair. Most folks thought he’d wind up being the type of person, like Kade, who had laws enforced on him, rather than being the enforcer himself. But now that he had a respectable job and filled out his height with solid muscle, plenty of women wanted to date him. But he hadn’t settled down. Was he going to carry a torch for Max forever?

  It’d be too bad, I thought, waving goodbye to Elliot at the door. Since he was neither a laptop nor a mocha, Max had no use for him.

  Except for the free info.

  I stepped out into the parking lot, where the heartbreaking bobcat herself stood beside a dusty pickup truck. She was energetically lecturing a tall, pale, muscular young guy whose ripped chest and defiant, bad boy smirk had starred in many of my high school daydreams. A shock of auburn hair covered one of Kade’s brooding hazel eyes, and he had the same slacker posture as all of the guys I’d crushed on who never even noticed me. Except as someone to borrow homework answers from.

  Thank goodness I was a bit older now and understood the appeal of nice, normal guy. Stability. Commit
ment. Rings.

  Kade was still hot as hades, though.

  “This is what you bought with your savings?” Max was saying, hands on her hips. “You couldn’t have held onto it to give to some lawyer? Besides, this piece of junk’s on its last legs.”

  Kade threw up his hands impatiently. “What was I supposed to do? You won’t loan me your car anymore, how am I supposed to get to work?”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. Kade had been borrowing Max’s car . . . what if he was the one who took it to Ashlee’s wedding?

  And if so, didn’t that suggest their relationship went further than “guy who makes your coffee?”

  If Max’s brain was making the same connection as mine, she didn’t show it. “Work? How’re you going to park that behemoth at work, genius, when Java Kitty’s lot is packed to the gills from dawn to dusk?”

  Both Kade and I were left speechless and despondent at this statement, though for very different reasons.

  With a sigh, she motioned for him to get in his truck. Before he peeled away, he gave her a sad look that nearly broke my heart. He was clearly upset to have disappointed her, just as I knew she was distraught from worry he might be in danger.

  The irony was, even that painful interaction between the siblings still showed me how much they loved each other.

  Which meant I really didn’t want to ask this question.

  “I can tell you’re worried about your brother,” I said gently, approaching her side. “But do you think . . . " How could I say this. “You don’t think he had anything to do with Ashlee’s disappearance?”

  “No, of course not.” She sounded annoyed by the very question, and I guess I didn’t blame her. I’d be the same way if she insinuated Bryson might be guilty. “I talked to him. He knows nothing. All he ever did was take her order at the coffee shop. Witnesses thought it looked ‘suspicious.’ Gee, I wonder why.”

  “His rep?”

  “Bingo. He can’t catch a break.”

  Something about her casting Kade as a victim didn’t sit right with me. He’d earned his bad reputation, after all. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t telling the whole truth about how he knew Ashlee. I cleared my throat. “Well, it is sort of his fault that he’s viewed as a criminal. Because of being a criminal.”