by Lucy Quinn
“Because he’s FBI, and you didn’t trust Swan to get to the bottom of things.” Dylan nodded. “Yeah, I get that. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not exactly the most dedicated public servant, either. Pretty sure the reason he drew Secret Seal as his beat is because it was a good way to keep him out of trouble.” He took another sip. “And his aunt’s the mayor in Hancock, so firing him isn’t exactly an option.”
“Ah.” That certainly explained things better. Cookie made a mental note to tell Hunter, if he hadn’t found that out already himself. Talking about all this reminded her of their investigation, and she decided she might as well use this opportunity to get a little more information. “What can you tell me about Daisy Harris?”
“Daisy?” It was like a wall came down inside Dylan. She practically saw the light vanish from his eyes, his sunny blue gaze turning to cold steel in a heartbeat. “What do you want to know?” The playfulness had vanished from his voice as well.
She shrugged, deliberately working to play it casual. “Oh, you know, the usual. What’s she like? She works at the Salty Dog, right?”
“She does,” Dylan agreed, dragging out each of the two words. “She does the books and sometimes waits tables or manages if they’re busy. Larry’s handed most of the business side off to her at this point, which leaves him free to cook and greet and inspect the catch.” He studied her. “Is she a suspect?” he asked bluntly.
“I don’t know. Should she be?” Cookie asked. “Her name’s come up a few times, that’s all.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes at her. “Is there some reason you’re doing the investigating and not Mr. FBI? You are, after all, just an innkeeper, right? Or does your ex find me too intimidating?” That last bit was added with a smug smirk.
“I’m just helping him out,” Cookie said quickly, ignoring the jab about being her ex. “Out here he doesn’t have a team, and… well, I have some experience with law enforcement. It’s only for this case, until he leaves.” She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask more questions.
“Law enforcement?” There was interest staring back at her.
She met his gaze head-on, preferring to be as straight with him as possible, while still keeping her secrets… for now. “It’s not something I’m ready to talk about. Besides, that’s the past. If the body hadn’t shown up in my backyard, I wouldn’t be involved in this at all.” Neither would Hunter, but she decided it was best to leave that part out.
He stared at her for a moment then nodded as if he understood where she was coming from. “Okay, fair enough.”
“Thanks. Now, about Daisy…?”
“Daisy wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Dylan assured her. He frowned. “Well, all right, I take that back. She’s not a fan of flies. And if you mess with her family, she’ll hit you like a freight train. She’s one of the most loyal people I know.”
“So you guys are friends?” Cookie tried to keep the edge out of her words and mostly succeeded.
“You could say that, yeah.” He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual warm, rich sound. This was a short, sharp bark, almost a little bitter. “Used to be a lot more than that.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Yep, she could hear the sharpness there, but fortunately Dylan seemed oblivious. His eyes had gone a little unfocused, evidently seeing something long since past. Something that, judging by his expression, he still missed. She gulped down another mouthful of her drink and thought it really could use more sugar.
“Sure. We dated all through high school, tried to keep it going after, almost got it to work, but…” He shrugged, though there was something off about the gesture, as if he was trying for casual and failing. Opening his mouth, he started to say something else but stopped himself.
“What?” Cookie pressed.
He shook his head, but after a few seconds he leaned back in the chair and met her gaze. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “I’d just enlisted, was about to ship out, and thought if I put a ring on her finger, well, then she’d wait for me. She would have. Daisy’s like that.” He sighed and took a slug of the lemonade as though it were something stronger. “I chickened out, though. We were both way too young.”
Averting his eyes, he stared out at the churning sea. “But that was a long time ago.”
Cookie was intrigued by these new insights into him as well as a little jealous. She let curiosity win. “Navy, huh?” she asked quietly. “Well, I do love a man in uniform,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood again, but the quip fell flat. “I’m sorry,” she said instead.
This time his shrug seemed more genuine, if resigned. “That’s life, right?” he said to the air around them. “Sometimes things work out, sometimes they don’t. Just the way it goes.” He finally focused back on her and on their conversation. “But Daisy’s not the killer.”
“You just said it was a long time ago,” Cookie countered. “Maybe she’s changed. People do.”
“Not like that. She’d never do that.” He frowned, the expression pulling his brow down, and suddenly he looked… dangerous. “Who said she would? You said you’d heard her name come up. Wait, let me guess.” He let out a snort of derision. “Mindy, right? Mindy Tremaine?” Apparently he read the confirmation in her body language. “Figures. Did she tell you Daisy was one of those mean girls?”
“Something like that,” Cookie admitted, even though she knew she probably shouldn’t.
“Ha!” He shook his head, not bothering to hide his distaste for the woman. “Trust me, that’s the pot calling the kettle—hell, it’s more like the pot accusing the teacup of being black. Mindy’s the nasty one, got a mean streak a mile wide. She was queen bee in high school, at least in her own head, but Daisy was the one everyone actually liked and looked up to. You know what people used to call them? Betty and Veronica. Like from Archie—Mindy was the spoiled one who thought everyone should worship her. Daisy was the hard worker who never realized how hot she was.”
“Wow, nice, hard-working, and hot? You’re right, you really screwed yourself on that one.” Cookie wanted to clap her hand over her mouth, but the words were already out there, and she winced just hearing them again in her head. Why the hell had she said that?
The way Dylan tilted his head to study her, she could see he was wondering the same thing. “Something wrong?” he asked. Then his lips tugged up in a slight smirk. “What, are you jealous of my ex?”
Cookie definitely was. “Why should I be?” she blustered, but she could tell the deflection hadn’t worked.
“I don’t know,” he asked, his tone softer now. “Why should you be?”
“Well, maybe…” She paused but then steeled herself to continue. “Maybe I just want to know that, if we do go out, I won’t have to worry about living in her shadow the whole time. Not much point dating you if you’re still pining for her.”
The chuckle that emerged from him was the one she’d heard that first day, warm and rich and rolling right through her, and it was accompanied by a twinkle in his eye. “So you want to date?” he asked.
Cookie opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by a shadow that fell across the two of them. A shadow followed immediately by the clomp of large feet up the porch steps and then across the porch.
“Sorry. Am I interrupting?” Hunter asked, swiping Cookie’s glass and taking a long sip of her lemonade. He didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Would it matter if you were?” Dylan replied, finishing his own drink and rising to his feet. “Later,” was all he said as he stalked over to gather his things to leave. Cookie couldn’t tell from the tone if that was a promise or just a standard parting.
When he was gone, she twisted around to glare up at Hunter, who was smirking down at her. “Thanks,” she snapped. “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” He set down her empty glass. “Now if you’re all done flirting with the help, come on. I just got a call from the coroner over in Hancock. He’s finished the autopsy and says he’s got info for us.”
Cookie was on her feet in an instant. “Don’t think this is over,” she warned as she pushed past Hunter and headed for the stairs.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered, and she could hear the laughter in his voice as he followed her out to his car.
12
“Welcome to the hottest morgue in town,” the medical examiner called out as Cookie and Hunter pushed open the doors and stepped into the cool, sterile-looking room, bathed in the stench of formaldehyde. “Where people are just dying to get in!”
Cookie couldn’t help it; despite her irritation with Hunter, they exchanged a glance that suggested they both wanted to roll their eyes but were restraining themselves. Oh, this was going to be fun.
“Sorry,” their host continued as they crossed the blue-and-white tiled floor to where he sat at a metal desk. “I don’t get a lot of visitors, so I like to liven it up when I do. Ha, ‘liven’ it up, get it?” He chuckled at his own joke.
“You’re the one who came and got the body,” Cookie noted out loud, studying him. He was tall, only a couple inches shorter than Hunter and a little on the thin side, with short dark hair and the typical olive complexion of a Hispanic. He had a sad-looking pencil mustache, steel-framed glasses, and a nameplate on his white lab coat that read Delgado.
“That’s right.” He puffed up, clearly pleased she’d remembered him. “Jared Delgado, at your service.” Rising to his feet, he took the hand she had reflexively offered, but instead of shaking it, he clasped her hand in his own, rolled it over, and then bent and kissed the back, right above the knuckles. All while gazing up at her.
Oh boy.
“Cookie James,” she replied, fighting the urge to yank her hand away. His touch was surprisingly warm for someone who worked with the dead.
“Ah, how fitting,” Delgado murmured, obviously trying to be suave. “A sweet name for a sweet lady.”
Hunter cleared his throat, forcing the medical examiner to glance over at him instead. “Hunter O’Neil,” he introduced himself, flashing his badge. “FBI. Deputy Swan should have told you to expect us.”
“Yes, of course.” Delgado straightened, finally releasing Cookie’s hand, and peered at Hunter. “They say a person’s name helps to form who they are, like a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he said as he led them over to the far wall with its row of steel doors. “Like parents naming their daughter Joy or Serenity or Hope.” He frowned, studying Hunter through his glasses. “Your parents chose Hunter, and here you are, an FBI agent who presumably spends a good deal of his time hunting down criminals, making good on your name. A hunter—solitary, driven, more at home on the chase than with other people.” The way his eyes slid to Cookie made it clear the medical examiner was busy drawing all sorts of conclusions, or at least grasping at them.
“You told Deputy Swan you had information about Chip Winslow,” Cookie reminded him, trying to keep her tone friendly but brisk. She didn’t really want to invite any additional familiarity with Mr. Delgado.
“Oh, absolutely.” He grasped the handle of one door and yanked it open then slid out the tray. The formaldehyde stench intensified, and Cookie tried not to breathe. A sheet-covered body lay there, and the medical examiner pulled back the fabric for them to see the man’s face—or what was left of it. The water had twisted his features, leaving them so deformed as to be unrecognizable. Cookie had seen Chip Winslow around the island several times, but even so, she had a hard time reconciling that handsome, if insufferably smug, man with the pale, wrinkled, misshapen face in front of her.
“Winslow, Charles Xavier,” Delgado read off a file he’d brought over. “Age thirty-two, permanent residence listed as 12 Terrace Way down in Cumberland. Cause of death…” He paused, looking up at them with a grin.
“Just tell us already,” Hunter growled.
Delgado shot him a wounded look, deflating as though someone had stuck a pin in him. “Fine.” With a heavy sigh he returned to the report. “Cause of death was a puncture wound to the back of the head. It pierced the skull and the brain, causing a massive embolism. He died instantly.” Lifting Winslow’s head, he pulled aside the dead man’s hair to show them the wound, which was large and gaping.
“So clearly he didn’t trip, fall in the water, and drown,” Hunter commented to Cookie, who was busy snapping a photo of the wound with her phone. “Scratch Deputy Swan’s theory.”
She nodded. “And a blow like that to the back of the head—hard to do that one on your own,” she pointed out. “More likely it was done to him.”
Delgado was looking from one to the other, trying to follow their conversation. “He definitely didn’t drown,” the medical examiner offered. “There was water in his lungs, but it was all post-mortem.”
“Can you estimate time of death?” Hunter asked.
Unfortunately, their host shook his head. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “His time in the water messes up a lot of the tests I’d normally run. I can tell you how long he was in the water, though,” he offered. At their nod he brightened a little, turning back to his chart. “I’d say thirty two, maybe thirty four hours.”
Hunter turned to Cookie. “When did your mother find the body?”
“Around eleven in the morning,” she said, remembering. “So that’d place him in the water between eleven p.m. and one a.m. Saturday night.”
“And we know he got into it with Rand Friday night,” Hunter added. “But that doesn’t tell us where he was Saturday.” He shook his head, grimacing slightly. “Rand could’ve gone after him again,” he suggested, though from his tone it didn’t sound as if he was buying that one either. Rand was clearly a hothead, but Cookie’d gotten the impression that he was more reactive than active. He’d stepped in when Chip had been hitting on Mindy Friday night, sure, but choosing to go after the man Saturday seemed out of character.
“I can go back over the body, check for any trace evidence I might’ve missed before,” Delgado offered, breaking into the conversation. “Don’t expect too much, though. Long-term immersion will have washed away most of it.” Jared’s eyes widened as he suddenly remembered something. “Wait.” A file cabinet drawer scraped open and Jared said, “I have something else for you.” He handed a key to Cookie. “Found this in his pocket.”
Cookie examined what appeared to be the key to a house before she handed it to Hunter. Considering it could open anything from a home on the island to something on the mainland it was a pitiful piece of evidence.
“Thank you. We’d appreciate anything else you can find,” Cookie assured him with a smile. The medical examiner immediately blushed, stood up straighter and tried to push his chest out. Cookie had to force herself not to laugh.
“I’ll call you the minute I find anything,” he promised eagerly, pointing at the record. Of course they’d taken down Cookie’s name and phone number as the person who’d found the body. Great. He also offered Cookie one of his business cards so she’d have his number as well.
“That would be a tremendous help,” Hunter declared, inserting himself between Cookie and the smitten medical examiner and offering his hand to the ME. Delgado shook it, and then Hunter turned away, a firm grip on Cookie’s arm as he steered her back toward the exit. “Thank you, Doctor,” Hunter called over his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”
They’d barely been outside ten seconds before Hunter glanced over at Cookie with a huge grin on his face. “Looks like somebody’s got a wee bit of a crush on you,” he said, laughing at her clear discomfort.
She took a deep breath and let ocean air fill her lungs. No matter how many times she’d been in a morgue she still couldn’t get used to thinking she was breathing in the dead. “So what?” she shot back. She wanted to deny it, but there was no way. Delgado had made his instant infatuation all too clear. “Are you jealous?”
That only made her ex-partner laugh harder. “Of that little dweeb? Not likely.”
“Oh?” She paused mid-retort to analyze his comment. “Not of him, but of somebody else,
maybe? Is that why you keep interrupting me and Dylan?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m jealous of a backwoods islander whose only job is helping people paint porches and screw in light bulbs.” But there was a bite to Hunter’s reply, and he’d stopped laughing, his eyes darkening with something Cookie thought might be anger.
“Dylan’s more than that, and you know it,” she told him, all playfulness gone. She shook her head. “What do you care, anyway? When this is all over, you’ll be going back to Philly.”
“You could come back with me.” They’d reached his car, and Hunter studied her over the roof of it, his gaze intent and very serious. “Come on, Charlie. This”—he waved his hand at Hancock, which was quaint and peaceful and five times the size of Secret Seal Isle at least, but still felt tiny—“isn’t you. You belong in the big city, solving crimes, taking down crooks and fugitives. You’re wasting away out here.”
“If that’s your way of telling me I’ve lost weight, you need to work on your compliments,” Cookie shot back, hands going to her hips, but the quip felt forced even to her. Hunter’s words had hit her like a freight train, each word punching its way into her heart.
He was right. She was wasted out here. What was she doing, setting up with her mother and playing at innkeeper? And on a ridiculously small little island to boot? One that didn’t even have its own police or medical examiner. A place with a handful of restaurants, no movie theater, precious little in general besides lobster and fish and coastline. This wasn’t her. Or, at least, it wasn’t Charlene Jamieson. But neither was she, anymore.
“I can’t go back,” she told him, the words weighing her down like lead. “You know that.”
“You mean because of DeMasi?” Hunter asked. “We can protect you. Come back to the bureau, and we’ll—”
“What?” Cookie snapped, anger at least helping her shake off the shroud of depression that had descended upon her. “Put me in protective custody? Babysit me twenty-four, seven? That’s crazy, and you know it, Hunter. What’d be the point in going back if I couldn’t be out there on the streets, doing my job? If I’ve got to be hidden away for my own protection, this is a lot better than any safe house.” It was her turn to gesture around. “At least here I’m free to roam, to interact, to do things.”