by Lucy Quinn
The “oomph” springing from his lips as the force of the blow knocked him backward was one of the sweetest sounds Cookie had ever heard.
Behind her she heard one of her second-favorite sounds—the thud of someone punching someone else, followed by the noise of someone hitting the ground. The takedown was almost simultaneous with the groan of Blondie landing hard on his back as the wind was knocked right out of him, and Cookie smiled.
She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw Hunter standing, victorious, with Mr. Macho splayed on the ground at his feet. Not that she’d doubted the outcome of that match-up—it would take somebody a lot bigger and tougher than a failed wannabe singer to get the better of Hunter. Her ex-partner gave her a thumbs-up as he pulled a zip tie from his jacket pocket and set about the work of trussing the blackmailer up like a Christmas turkey.
Cookie, meanwhile, stooped and snatched up something off the ground before returning her attention to Blondie. He struggled to regain his feet right up until the moment he felt the tip of her pistol poke him in the forehead. Then, wisely, he froze.
She let him sit like that for a few more seconds before breaking the silence. “Hands on your head,” she instructed. “Do not move. I will shoot you in the face.”
He nodded so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break anything. But Cookie kept any amusement from showing on her face as she waited for Hunter to reach her with another zip tie.
It was only when Blondie’s hands were tied securely behind his back that Cookie let herself lower the gun. Then she sagged to the ground in relief.
It was over. And the superstar singer, Hayley Holloway, was safe.
23
“Okay,” Cookie said as she handed Hayley a cup of steaming hot coffee and sat across from her. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
They were at the Hancock police station. Mr. Macho and Blondie—real names Luis James and Randall Kelsey, according to their driver’s licenses—had been taken to lockup, and now Hunter and Cookie were sitting in one of the interrogation rooms with Hayley.
The singer had not been handcuffed, nor had she been read her rights. She wasn’t in any trouble, but that didn’t mean they didn’t need some answers.
The superstar seemed to know that. She sighed, nodded, and took a quick sip of the coffee, grimacing at the taste as she wrapped both hands around the Styrofoam cup to savor the warmth. After the adrenaline had faded, all three of them had felt the night’s chill. Especially as they’d taken the boats back here and tied them up at the docks. Fortunately, Hayley knew her way around boats well enough that she was able to pilot the black speedboat the blackmailers had brought. Her own boat had been simple enough that Hunter had been able to figure it out, plus strong enough to tow Dylan’s boat behind it.
“It started a few months ago,” Hayley explained. She frowned, looked away, then seemed to make a decision and faced them again. “It’s my voice,” she continued, her tone flat and businesslike. “It’s gone.”
Hunter looked confused, but Cookie actually gaped at the woman beside her. “What do you mean, gone?” she asked.
“I—I developed nodules on my vocal chords,” Hayley answered. Her eyes welled up a little. “It happens to a lot of singers. The only way to get rid of them is surgery, but there’s always a risk—everything could go fine but if the nodules are too closely entwined, or the surgeon isn’t quite precise enough, he can nick the chords themselves. Sometimes they even heal from that, but sometimes they don’t.” She gulped. “Mine… didn’t. They still could, maybe, but it’s not very likely.” A few tears leaked out, and Cookie grabbed in her pocket for some tissues as the singer burst out, “I won’t ever be able to sing again!”
Watching her sob, Cookie could only imagine. Hayley’s voice had been her life—not just her livelihood, but also her form of expression, of creativity and personality. It was who she was. With that gone, what was she?
And she suddenly remembered when Hayley had first arrived at the Inn. Rain had urged her to “sing it out,” but Hayley had refused. Now that made perfect sense. As did the whole blackmail scheme, and all of Mr. Macho’s snide little comments. “They found out about your voice,” she said.
Hayley nodded, sitting back up and dabbing at her eyes. “I was right in the middle of the new album when it all happened,” she said, her voice a little shaky still. “We had a few of the songs finished, and some tracks for most of the others, but there was still a lot to do. My producer told me not to worry about it, we’d hire a few studio singers to record the rest, and tweak their voices in post to make them sound like me. Between that and what we already had, we could fake it—it wouldn’t be my best work, but it’d be enough to fool people. Then I could announce my retirement after that and nobody would ever have to know what’d really happened.”
She sniffed. “But somehow those two found out. I think one of them may’ve been sleeping with one of our sound mixers, hoping that would lead to a record deal of his own. A few weeks after we hired the first singer, I got a call. All he said was, ‘funny, it doesn’t sound much like you on that song.’ And I knew he knew. Then he told me to go buy a burner phone and leave the number pinned up on this bulletin board at this one particular coffeehouse. He called me the next day and told me I needed to pay him half a million dollars or he’d tell everyone about my voice.”
“And if he did that, the album would tank,” Hunter chimed in. “Your career would be over that much sooner, and you wouldn’t see any money from it.”
She nodded. “So I went along with it. Sort of.” A smile flickered briefly across her lips. “I told Dickie what had happened—I told him everything. He insisted on buying a burner of his own and getting their number from me. Then he called them and said he’d be handling the arrangements from here on out.” She sighed. “He was always looking out for me.”
“So he came out here in order to have a quiet place where he could make the exchange; some place that your fans and stalkers and the paparazzi would never find,” Cookie guessed. “And while waiting for the exchange, he met Trina—and Peaches.”
Hunter picked up the narrative. “He dated both girls, but then Trina found out. She shoved him, and when he fell it burst the aneurysm he probably never knew he had. Killed him instantly.”
“Wait, what?” Hayley sat up straighter, startled, and Cookie realized with a shock that this was the first the singer was hearing about this. “So she killed him?”
“No,” Cookie assured her, putting a hand on the other woman’s. “It was death by natural causes, a brain aneurysm. Trina might’ve hurried it along a little, but the ME says it was going to burst soon regardless, and once it did Dickie was a goner. I’m sorry.” She squeezed Hayley’s hand. “If it helps any, it was instant. He didn’t feel a thing.”
“We were actually on our way to tell you,” Hunter offered, “but by the time we got back to the inn you were gone.”
“They called me this evening and said the exchange was tonight,” Hayley recalled. “They also told me that my brother’s dying didn’t change anything.” She studied the coffee cup in her hands. “That shook me up—here I was, still all torn up about my brother, and they’re being all cavalier and saying it doesn’t matter? I needed to walk, to clear my head. Then I headed down to the dock and rented that boat off some local guy just coming back in for the night.” She shrugged. “Dickie’d taught me enough about boats that I figured I could handle it, so I headed straight to where they said to meet.” She looked over at Cookie and then at Hunter. “I guess you know the rest.”
Cookie still wanted to make sure she had everything straight. “So Dickie was their contact?” she asked. “But when he died, they called you instead.”
That brought fresh tears, but if her expression was any indication Hayley’s sorrow this time was mingled with rage. “Can you believe that?” she demanded. “My brother dies, and the way I hear about it is to get a call from the man blackmailing me, who says, ‘Don’t think your brother’s
biting it changes anything.’” She pounded a hand on the table, making the coffee cup jump. “That’s just… what kind of person does that?”
“The kind that’s desperate, and more than a little bitter,” Cookie guessed. “So that’s why you headed out here before anyone could get in touch with you, because you were worried about Dickie.”
Hayley nodded. “We’d just talked the night before, but after that call I tried him again. Only he never answered. And that wasn’t like him—he was always there for me, no matter what. So I knew they’d been telling the truth.” She looked at Cookie. “I had to come out here, to see for myself, and to take care of him if it was real. Plus, if that happened, I had to handle this thing about my voice, too.” She swiped at her eyes again. “Obviously it was all true.”
Cookie glanced over at Hunter, who nodded. All the pieces fit together. And since the blackmailers had already been in town by the time Dickie died, keeping tabs on him before the exchange, that explained how they knew about his death so fast. Even though they hadn’t really had anything to do with it, other than maybe giving him a little extra stress. Then once Hayley had arrived they’d followed her around, giving her a few days before reaching out to make contact and arrange to conclude their deal.
Well, now they didn’t have a deal. They didn’t have the money. They didn’t have anything.
And sure, Luis and Randall could still raise a stink. They could still out Hayley’s voice problems to the press—though most reporters would be a lot more interested in hearing about how they’d almost kidnapped Hayley Holloway than any claims the blackmailers might make about her voice. Especially once the new album came out and everyone could hear it for themselves.
Cookie was sure Hayley’s production people had done a good job making it sound like her voice was fine—they could do amazing stuff with computer programs these days, after all. The album would probably do well, maybe even win her a few awards and top a couple of charts. Then Hayley could always declare that she was too upset over her brother’s death to think about singing anymore. No one would blame her for that. Maybe she’d start writing songs for other people, or help produce albums, or manage a band, or even be on one of those cheesy reality shows. The truth was, she was still young enough that she had a good long life ahead of her, and there were plenty of things she could do—really, whatever she wanted.
It was just sad that her brother wouldn’t be here to see it.
24
“I just want to sleep for a week,” Hayley groaned as they drove toward the inn. It was past midnight, but they’d finally gotten all of the paperwork done and the case—cases, actually, Dickie’s death and Hayley’s blackmail—officially closed. At least they hadn’t had to wait for the ferry to start up again in the morning. The sheriff had impounded the blackmailers’ fancy black boat but they’d hitched Dylan’s to the back of Hayley’s rental and then she’d piloted them back to the island. Now both boats were back where they’d found them and Cookie was headed home with Hunter and Hayley, nothing but rest on her mind.
Until the inn came into view, that is. Because, despite the late hour, all the lights were on. And as they got closer, they could hear music playing. Loudly.
And not just any music, either. Hayley groaned. “Why is it always that one?” she asked, her voice perilously close to a whine. Cookie smiled sympathetically. Even though the singer had released a dozen albums over the years, she was absolutely right; the one that everyone seemed to play over and over again was still her second record, How Hayley. She knew she’d certainly listened to it hundreds of times when she was young—and still broke it out every now and then, especially when she was feeling low.
“Because it’s a classic?” Cookie offered as they climbed out of the car, and Hayley laughed.
“Thanks, I guess,” she said. “But that just makes me feel old.”
Hunter had outpaced them by a few steps, but they caught up with him at the edge of the porch where he’d stopped, seemingly unable to take another step. “You’re only as old as you feel—or act,” he stated, clearly having heard their conversation. He glanced over at Cookie, one eyebrow raised, his face caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Which means your mom’s probably about five. Maybe six.”
Not sure what he was referring to this time, Cookie looked past him, through the bay windows of the living room. And sighed. Then, after hip-checking Hunter out of the way, she climbed up the steps, stomped across the porch, and stormed into the inn.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded loudly, raising her voice both from temper and to be heard over the vocal stylings of the young pop sensation, Hayley Holloway. Cookie jammed her hands on her hips and glared at her mother.
Because Rain was dancing around the living room, a glass of wine in one hand and a joint in the other. And she was wearing a silk scarf that Cookie was sure wasn’t hers, tied around her head like a bandana. And a slinky metallic dress Cookie had last seen at Infinity.
It had looked a lot better on Hayley.
“Oh, hi, sweetie!” Rain shouted when she finally noticed Cookie standing there. “Everything okay?” Then she spotted Hayley, who had followed Cookie in, as had Hunter. “Oh, are you okay, sweetie?” Rain asked, rushing over and sweeping the startled singer up in a big hug.
For a second, Hayley froze. Then she melted into the embrace. Cookie couldn’t blame her. After everything she’d been through, the poor pop star could use a good hug. And whatever else Rain was, she was great at giving comfort. When it suited her.
A motion out of the corner of her eye made Cookie tense, reaching for her gun, but it was only Winter, who had just come bustling out of the kitchen. She was wearing a silk blouse Cookie thought she remembered seeing Hayley in a few days ago, and had what were clearly designer boots on her feet. That made Cookie turn and double-check her mother’s feet. Sure enough, Rain was wearing some of Hayley’s shoes as well. In fact, she had on a pair of jeweled flats that looked exactly like the ones Cookie had seen in the bathroom at the Tipsy Seagull.
“Hello, dear,” Winter said, giving Cookie a hug. “Officer,” the older woman added, offering Hunter only a frosty nod. “And you must be Hayley!” she threw her arms around Hayley, who looked more confused than ever. “I’m so sorry about your clothes,” Winter continued, gesturing at her own ensemble and then indicating Rain’s. “We needed them for the protection ritual and then, well, we might’ve gotten a little carried away.” She looked serious and wise—and then spoiled that effect by giggling like a crazed schoolgirl. “All your things are just so cute!”
“Thank you,” Hayley replied, starting to get over the shock of coming home and finding two older women dancing around her in her clothes. She looked at Cookie and shrugged before turning around and treating Rain and Winter to a knockout smile. “That was very sweet of you to want to help, and I’m sure it did.”
“Did everything work out all right, then?” Rain asked, studying the three of them. “Where’d your money go?” Leave it to her eagle-eyed mom to notice that the backpack full of cash had disappeared somewhere along the way. “Did somebody take it from you?”
“Not exactly,” Hayley answered, smiling at Cookie and Hunter. “But it’s going to be fine.” The backpack and its contents were in Hancock, at the sheriff’s office. They were evidence of the case against her blackmailers, but Cookie was almost certain the money would be released back to Hayley, possibly as early as tomorrow.
“Ma, take her clothes off,” Cookie ordered Rain, fighting the urge to stomp her foot. “Right now!”
“Aw, do I have to?” her mother asked just like a small child, her whole face starting to crumple. She held up her right foot, wiggling it about to display the jeweled flat upon it, before doing the same with the left. “What about these?” she asked plaintively. “Look how nice they are on me.”
Cookie started to yell again, but a hand on her arm stopped her.
“You know what?” Hayley asked with a s
mile. “Go ahead and keep the shoes.” Her smile quirked slightly, became more mischievous. “But it’s going to cost you.”
“Oh?” That had Rain intrigued enough to stop pouting or arguing or even dancing, if only for a few seconds.
“Yes.” The singer’s expression turned positively devilish. “It’ll cost you—some of whatever it is you’re having.”
Cookie sighed, seeing potential disaster, but Rain and Winter both roared with laughter.
“Need a little cheering up and forgetting, do you?” Winter asked after she’d recovered. She turned to one of the end tables and retrieved a small plate, which was piled high with thick, rich, moist-looking brownies. “Here you are, dear,” the old ex-hippie announced, offering the plate to Hayley. “Takes as many as you like.”
The singer accepted a thick slab of brownie, and bit into it straightaway. “Ah,” she said with a sigh after she’d chewed and swallowed. “That’s exactly what I needed.” Her expression drew dreamy, and she swayed a little.
At first Cookie thought it was from fatigue, before she realized it was actually in synch with the music still blasting out all around them. Then Hayley started to sing. Or at least looked like she was singing. She was simply lip-synching, matching her movements to the clear, powerful sounds emanating from the stereo, but every movement was perfectly timed, each gesture and lip motion spot-on, so it was easy to squint a little and imagine that the Hayley Holloway was treating them to an impromptu live performance.
And, at least in some ways, she absolutely was.
“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,” Hunter announced, cutting into all the merriment, “but I’m beat. I’m going to turn in.” His gaze flicked from one to another, finally resting on Cookie with searing intensity. “Good night.” And he turned, making his way toward the stairs.
“Good night!” Rain shouted back. She watched Hunter go before turning to Cookie and shaking her head. “That boy is hot-hot-hot. Please tell me you’re not going to let him go to bed alone.” She giggled, her eyes flashing with mischief. “I know I wouldn’t.”