A Walk on the Dead Side (Secret Seal Isle Mysteries Book 3)

by Lucy Quinn

  Dylan recovered and held strong, the contents of the tray clamoring as he shoved it aside and reached for Cookie, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her in close. The awkwardness slipped away, their lips soft and supple as they nibbled at each other like the perfect dessert to their makeshift picnic. Dylan. She was kissing Dylan. And it was amazing.

  Cookie wasn’t inexperienced at the ol’ lip-lock. She’d kissed guys with firm lips, soft lips, scratchy lips, thin lips, thick lips, all sorts. But she honestly couldn’t remember a kiss as good as this.

  Part of that was because right now she couldn’t remember much of anything. Hell, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure of her own name at the moment. The embrace was taking away her ability to think or move or do much of anything else. Which only proved how good it was. Because although she’d heard about people being kissed senseless, this was certainly the first time she’d ever experienced it herself. So she silenced her inner dialogue and stopped trying to think, at least for a little while. All she wanted right then was Dylan.

  Eventually their lips parted, and both of them pulled back a little. Not far, but just enough so that they could breathe, and also meet each other’s eyes. His had shifted to a bright, clear, almost sapphire blue, Cookie noted.

  “Wow,” he said after a second. He chest heaved from breathing heavily, like he’d just run a marathon, and his face was flushed.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. She was gasping a bit as well.

  “So does that mean you like me?” he asked, an impish smile twitching at his lips and matching the light in his crinkling eyes. “Or were you just demonstrating how much all this danger and weirdness turns you on?”

  “Shut up,” Cookie warned, slapping him lightly on the chest. But she was already leaning in. Then they were kissing again, and she hoped he’d forgotten his questions, because she certainly had.

  This time they parted more quickly, which was disappointing. Still reeling from the kiss, she frowned as she tried to focus, to figure out why her lips were separated from Dylan’s. But she could hardly think straight with all the commotion coming from the inn.

  Wait, what?

  Cooking turned and stared toward the house, fully registering the fact that Rain was screaming her name.

  Dylan, already looking in that direction, cleared his throat, and in an oddly flat, even cold voice, said, “Looks like your mom wants to give us a hand.”

  Cookie’s heart lurched as her gaze landed on her frantic mother and the severed body part she was holding.

  6

  “Cookie! Cookieeeeeeee!!!” Rain ran across the backyard, waving her hands—all three of them—at Cookie and Dylan.

  Leaping to her feet, Cookie staggered into motion, meeting Rain halfway. “It’s okay, Mom,” she promised, reaching out to capture her mother’s wrists as gently as she could. And now, with her mother finally stilled, Cookie was able to confirm what she’d seen and not quite believed before.

  Rain was clutching an extra hand.

  “Dylan, grab me a napkin or something,” Cookie called out. A second later he was beside her, one of the inn’s cloth napkins held out like an offering. She took it, draped it over her fingers and thumb, and used it to pry the unfamiliar limb from her mother’s panicked death grip. Then, taking a step back, Cookie examined the appendage.

  It was a man’s hand, she saw at once. Long, thick fingers, heavy, swollen joints, coarse reddish-brown hair coating the back, thick calluses lining the ridge just below the fingers in front. The odor of death told her it was real, right down to the jagged edge where the flesh had been cut away at the wrist, and the sawed-off bone. There wasn’t any blood, or at least nothing dripped down on her, so it had had time to coagulate, and the fingers were stiff when she pushed at them. Rigor mortis had definitely set in and not yet faded, which could yield an approximate time of death. She held it up against her own hand to get a sense of scale. Whoever the hand had come from, he was probably at least her height, maybe taller, and—

  A rasping sound came from behind her, interrupting her train of thought. Cookie turned to find Dylan standing there, arms crossed, shaking his head. “I need a plastic bag,” she told him, brandishing the hand in his direction.

  “Sure.” He didn’t seem freaked out by the severed limb, but he didn’t look all that eager to take it from her, either. Instead he edged around her and headed toward the house and the kitchen. With him gone, Cookie turned to her mother.

  Rain hadn’t budged since surrendering the hand. She was still standing there, eyes wide, face pale, wringing her own hands together. “Mom,” Cookie said to her, then tried again, louder, when Rain didn’t respond. “Mom!”

  That made Rain’s head snap in her direction, and after a second her mother drew a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes finally focusing on Cookie’s face.

  “Mom, where did this come from?” Cookie asked softly. “Did you find it somewhere, or did someone give it to you?”

  Her mother snorted, showing a grain of her usual spark. “Even if I’d found a hand lying about somewhere, do you really think I’d pick it up and bring it home?” She shook her head. “That’s more your thing, dear.”

  “Body parts? I don’t think so mother,” Cookie shot back, mildly insulted.

  “Well, you were always bringing me birds with broken wings, abandoned and possibly abused cats and dogs, and even that turtle with a hurt leg. For goodness sake, there were so many, I just knew you were going to be a vet. You definitely missed your calling, dear.”

  Cookie clamped her mouth shut to keep from correcting her mother over the decade-old argument. Now wasn’t the time. Rain had understood that her daughter had sympathized with damaged animals, of course. But beyond that, Cookie had burned with fury at whomever had hurt them, and with the fierce desire to make it right somehow. That’s why she’d gone for punishing criminals instead of bandaging hurt paws. She’d rather get justice than soothe pain any day.

  “So if you didn’t find the hand, where did you get it?” Cookie asked again. Dylan had reemerged from the inn, holding a large sealable freezer bag. Perfect.

  “Thanks,” she told him as the bag rustled when he opened it and held it out so she could deposit the hand inside. “Mom?”

  “Hmm?” Rain was frowning at the bagged hand like it was somehow to blame, and Cookie wondered if her mother was in shock. “Oh. You got a package.”

  “I got a package?” Cookie stared at her. “When? Where? What does that have to do with anything?”

  Her mother sighed. “It was right after I brought out your dinner.” She took a second to shoot an accusing glare at the overturned tray and the remains of the picnic scattered about on the ground. “Somebody knocked, and it was a courier.” A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. “Cute, too. Very cute.” Apparently shock wasn’t the problem here. “About six feet tall, slim but not too skinny. You know how I don’t like them bony. What’s the point if there isn’t at least a little meat to grab, right? Dark, curly hair, a little long. Nice nose, not too big but not a little button either. I’ve never liked those. They’re fine on lap dogs but men? No way. Brown eyes, very warm. Good smile, chipped front tooth but still open and friendly. He had—”

  “Mom!” On the one hand, Cookie was glad that her mother seemed to be fine. On the other, she really didn’t need a detailed description of some random delivery guy right now, especially since she knew her mother’s recounting was probably about to head south—in more ways than one. “So this guy showed up with a package for me. What then?”

  “Oh, well, we chatted a minute. But he said he had other deliveries to make, so he left, though I think he wanted to ask for my number. So hopefully he—” At another glare from Cookie, Rain visibly shook herself. “Right. So you had this package, and it didn’t have a return address. I thought that was weird, but didn’t think much of it. Small town and all. And you and Dylan were having such a nice time out here.” She paused long enough to smirk at them, which made
Cookie’s face heat up. “So I figured I’d just go ahead and open the package for you, so as not to disturb your dinner.”

  Cookie groaned. “Mom, you do know that messing with someone else’s mail is a federal offense, right?”

  But Rain just waved that off. “Oh, phooie! I’m not messing, I’m your mother.”

  Cookie decided to ignore that, though she noticed Dylan was trying hard not to laugh. “So you opened this package that had been addressed to me. And?”

  “And I noticed right away that it smelled funny,” Rain answered. She paused then gave Cookie a self-satisfied smile. “Yes, that’s right, it smelled funny. That’s why I opened it. I was worried that whatever was in it might be spoiled or something, so I thought I’d better take care of it right away, before it got worse.”

  “Of course you did.” Cookie didn’t have the heart to point out that Rain had just completely contradicted herself. It just wasn’t worth the effort.

  “And when I opened the box, there it was.” Rain grimaced as she pointed at the severed hand. “It was horrible! So I grabbed it and ran to get you.”

  Thereby destroying a ton of potential evidence, Cookie thought, biting back a groan. Fingerprints, tape, fibers, DNA, etc. Who knew how much Rain had obliterated out of curiosity and then panic? “Was there anything else in the box?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm.

  Her mother frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her brow creasing in concentration. “I can’t remember. Maybe? Yes! Yes, I think there was. A piece of paper. Like a note or a card.” She turned back toward the house. “I’ll go get it.”

  “No!” Cookie caught herself after her mother recoiled from the shout and continued in a more normal tone. “I’ll get it. Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh. All right.” Her mother looked a little hurt. “I’ll just pick up the dinner I made for you, then.”

  “It was really good, Mom,” Cookie managed, and was pleased to see her mother brighten a little. “Really. And incredibly sweet of you. Thank you.”

  As Cookie trudged toward the house, plastic bag still firmly in her grasp, she heard Dylan compliment Rain on dinner, as well. She made a mental note to thank him later. He’d totally charm Rain out of her funk, which left Cookie to focus on this package and its meaning.

  She found the box easily enough. It was sitting on the little table just inside the front door, the one where they placed their mail and their keys and the sign-in book for guests. It was a standard cardboard container, and her name and “Secret Seal Inn” were written on it in what looked like black marker. She winced at how the box had been torn open, as well as the rank odor, then used a pen to push back the flaps and peer inside.

  Sure enough, a folded piece of paper lay within.

  Cookie still had the napkin Dylan had handed her, and used it to carefully collect the note. The thick cloth of the napkin made fine motor control a lot harder. Crushing the note or ruining any trace it might carry would be detrimental to the investigation. But finally she managed to extract the letter from the box and lay it out on the table.

  It was a short note, and straight to the point:

  You have something of ours. Tell no one. We’ll be in touch.

  That was it. Cookie had no doubt what “something” they were referring to. The question was who were “they,” and how had they known she’d taken the drugs?

  “That can’t be good,” a voice commented from behind her. Cookie whirled about, dropping reflexively into a defensive pose at the same time she reached for her gun, the metal warm on her fingers. “Whoa,” Dylan said, holding up both hands and backing away a step. “Sorry. Should’ve let you know I was here, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Cookie agreed, wondering once again where he’d learned to move so silently. “And no, it’s not good.” She glanced past Dylan, toward the kitchen. “Where’s mom?"

  “She’s busy putting stuff away,” he assured her, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry. He gestured with his chin toward the note. “I’m assuming they’re talking about that thing from earlier?”

  “Has to be,” she agreed. “And this”—she waved the hand in its bag— “is their idea of a warning.”

  “Pretty nasty warning.” He shook his head. “What were you saying about a simple life, and the quiet, and so on?”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” she pointed out. “You were there, you saw. We just stumbled onto it and into whatever all this is.”

  But Dylan wasn’t arguing. Instead he was staring at the note. Finally, he sighed. “I guess this means you’re calling Hunter,” he said. His whole body was tense, as if he was prepared for a fight.

  Cookie understood. He and Hunter had gotten off on the wrong foot right from the start, with Hunter acting the possessive partner and then interrogating Dylan about Chip’s murder. Things hadn’t exactly improved from there. True, they’d managed to put their differences aside a few times when Dylan had helped them go after Stone Harris, and again when Hayley had been blackmailed. But both men were strong, stubborn, used to being in charge, and evidently interested in her. And neither was willing to share.

  Still, at least Dylan understood that this was the sort of thing that really needed Hunter’s attention. It wasn’t personal. So she shrugged and said, “Yeah, I think he needs to know about this.” She didn’t bother to mention that she’d already talked to him, and that he was already on his way. There was nothing to gain from elaborating.

  Dylan nodded. “I’d better get going,” he said, turning toward the front door. He stopped mid-motion, however, to eye her seriously. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “But thanks.” She hoped that her warm tone was enough to convey how much she meant that. She wasn’t one of those women who got offended when a man tried to help her. She would get mighty pissed if he insisted on helping after she’d made it clear she neither needed nor wanted help. But checking on her after someone delivered a nasty threat along with a severed hand? Definitely not going to get up in arms about that one.

  She thought he understood, because he smiled as he left. Still, she couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t tried to kiss her goodnight. Then again, she was still holding the severed hand and a loaded gun. A lot of guys would probably consider that a mood-killer.

  Cookie hoped that was all it wound up killing.

  7

  Cookie was still standing in the front hall, the severed limb in one hand and the note in her other, when Rain finally emerged from the kitchen.

  “What are you going to do with that…thing?” her mother asked hesitantly, very unlike her usual boisterous self. But at least she seemed composed, Cookie thought. Composed…and maybe a little glassy-eyed. Still, if toking up was what it took for her to get past the shock she’d just experienced, Cookie was hardly going to begrudge her.

  Truth be told, she didn’t have a problem with people getting high as long as it didn’t ruin their lives or put anyone else at risk. She did think that Rain took it a bit too far sometimes. If her mother got in trouble with the law, Cookie could probably get her cleared without too much trouble, but that kind of attention could expose them both. It wasn’t something either of them needed. But deep down, Cookie had to admit that her mother’s personality was just as much a risk as her penchant for the Mary Jane. The woman made a big deal out of everything. There was just as much a chance she’d do something crazy that would expose them as there was of her getting into trouble with the law over a minor drug infraction.

  Still, Rain had raised Cookie singlehandedly, working a variety of jobs to keep a roof over both their heads, food on the table, and money for textbooks and whatever else they needed, so clearly she was no stranger to responsibility. Because of that, Cookie cut her mother a lot of slack.

  Right now, for example, Rain was certainly lucid enough to be asking an important question. And Cookie felt that deserved a proper answer. ”It’s evidence of a crime, maybe more than one, so I really should turn
it over to the proper authorities. The only problem with that is—”

  “Deputy Swan is a big fat butthead,” her mother finished for her.

  Cookie had to laugh at that. “Yeah, that about sums it up,” she agreed.

  Just like Dylan and Hunter hadn’t gotten along from the get-go, she and Swan had started on the absolute wrong foot. And maybe part of that was her fault, both for not revealing her FBI background and for taking offense easily. But when a dead body washes up on your property and you report it, you don’t expect the local law to pat you on the head and say, “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Which was basically what Swan had done.

  If he’d had his way, there never would have been an investigation at all. And sure, Stone Harris hadn’t meant for Chip Winslow to die, but still even a slug like him deserved some justice. Or at least closure.

  But Swan couldn’t be bothered. With that, or much of anything else. He’d told Cookie once that he liked being the only deputy on the island because it was quiet and nobody expected much of him except to break up the occasional barroom brawl or to rescue the rare treed cat. Nothing much ever happened here, so he could just sit back in his office and play on his computer all day.

  Except, as Dylan had pointed out, since Cookie’s arrival they’d had two deaths, one blackmailing, and now one major drug score. Plus one severed hand. Not exactly the quiet Swan enjoyed so much.

  Cookie knew she had to call him. If she had any respect for the badge and the office, which she did, just not the man holding them, she needed to report it properly. But she still couldn’t forgive him for accidentally misplacing a piece of crucial evidence in the Dickie Dungworth case. And she was giving him the benefit of the doubt by believing his claim that it had even been an accident. So how was she supposed to trust him with this?