by Louise Lynn
Blackmail? Urgh. It was so like her.
Adam paused, but he didn’t look back. He continued walking, his rapid breathing coming out like fog, away from the set.
“What the …” Ivy murmured.
Before I could say anything, someone else had joined the public debacle. A faint figure, leaning against one of the trailers opposite Quintessence, chuckled into the cold, night air.
“Now, wasn’t that a delightful surprise?”
I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear him dipping into a bag of chips and nonchalantly eating away as he spoke. His voice sounded somewhat familiar, though I couldn’t place him. I’d definitely not served him, that was for sure.
“Just … just go away,” Quintessence sobbed, wiping at her face. “It’s over, anyway.”
She let out another sob, her tears ruining all her makeup that probably took half the night to do.
“Why? When I was having so much fun.” Another crunch. “A shame he didn’t stay long, or else I’d have gained more wonderful evidence for my lawyer. At least now I’ve won the case. Isn’t that glorious, my darling Quinn?”
“I despise you, do you know that?” she gritted in return, but the man only laughed at how pathetic she sounded. “You can get me to sign those papers over my dead body!”
Then Quintessence picked up the sides of her dress and stormed back to her trailer. I held my breath and waited for the man to disappear, but he didn’t. Instead, he addressed someone else, and at first, I thought we’d been caught red-handed, but then I realized he was talking to a man slouched against the end of Quinn’s trailer, who smoked a cigarette in the shadows, slivers of trailer lights shining over his balding head. I vaguely recognized him as the crew’s sound guy. He had only showed up for lunch that day and had sat alone, away from the rest of the crew, and barely touched any of his food.
Jacob, I thought his name was.
“Keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t show up too late.” The man pushed up from the opposite trailer and threw his trash onto the ground. “She’s the belle of the ball, after all.”
He climbed back into his own trailer, switching on the inside light.
Now I could see that the other man was definitely Jacob.
He approached Quintessence’s door with a slow limp, knocked, and waited. A moment later, Quintessence opened the door an inch, peered between the gap, and groaned.
Jacob must have whispered something to her, though I couldn’t hear it. All I could hear was Quintessence’s abrupt reply:
“Stay away from me, you creepy weirdo!”
Then she slammed the door shut without another word. I placed Quintessence’s shake cup on the ground and Ivy dragged me away before I could catch a better glimpse of what was going on. I’d only wanted to make sure she hadn’t died. I didn’t expect any of that.
“What did we just witness? That’s some serious Hollywood drama right there.”
A cold shiver swept over my body, and I pulled my coat tighter around my waist. “Who was the man laughing at her?” I asked.
“You mean, you didn’t know?”
“I only recognized Jacob and Adam.”
After a moment, Ivy said, “The other man? The one chuckling? That was Clark Duncan. Quintessence’s husband.”
I was certain I was going to burst my bottom lip with the amount of worrying I was doing.
“If that was her husband,” I said, climbing into my truck, “then he’s got some serious issues.”
“Marrying Mary Jones is some serious issues,” Ivy countered, pulling on her seatbelt.
“True. But the husband’s behavior? It seemed to be a little on the callous side. Even for someone who married a narcissistic bully.”
My sister side-eyed me. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Miss Marple?”
I rolled my eyes and put the truck in reverse. “Well, it’s suspicious to me. He didn’t even intervene when he saw his wife kissing another man. That’s weird.”
“Maybe they have an open relationship.”
Yes, but that still didn’t explain his attitude toward Quintessence.
Ivy brought out her phone and began to type furiously, as she always did. I kept my thoughts to myself. I hated that I was investing emotions into a relationship that had nothing to do with me. But what if she was being mistreated behind closed doors? Her suffocating facade would at least begin to make sense. Was it a cry for help?
I pushed all those thoughts aside. Work was over with, and I had more things to worry about. Such as Maritime Teashop, my mom, and Buttercup. I hoped they survived their first day without any drama.
I turned toward our home. The three-story, Victorian house—with the gorgeous woodwork all painted a deep plum—swam into my line of sight. That, and the familiar undercover police car parked behind my mom’s car in the driveway.
My stomach sank. “Oh no …”
I couldn’t even finish my sentence. Bile rose into my stomach and I closed my eyes.
There were two options.
One: Dean had come to accuse me of attempting to burn Quintessence alive.
Two: Mom had invited him for dinner.
For once, I honestly hoped it wasn’t the latter.
Chapter Five
For my whole life, I had looked at our home as a place of refuge. Now, I wanted to run away and hide myself in a deep, dark cave.
“You do know Mom will kill you if you try to avoid this?”
Ivy gripped my shoulder once we’d stepped out of the truck.
I groaned. “If I don’t kill her first,” I mumbled under my breath. “More to the point, I’d told Dean I was busy. I still have baking to do and it’s—” Ivy held out her phone which read two minutes to eight “—not even eight yet. That means at least another four hours of work are still waiting on me. If I’m on schedule, I can be sleeping by one a.m. then—”
“Wow. Are you seriously counting how many hours of sleep you’ll get? Just do what I do.”
“And what’s that?” I rolled my eyes, then unlocked the metal gate for us.
“Fall asleep and see what happens.”
“What I’d give to be your age again, Ivy.”
She skipped in front of me, grinning, and thrust open the front door. “Age before beauty.”
I bashed the top of her head and swept over the threshold. The smell of meatloaf, cooking in Mom’s kitchen, wafted through my senses. It was official. Mom only ever cooked meatloaf when she was either breaking bad news to us, or she had a guest we wouldn’t be entirely thrilled about.
We hung up our coats at the door and emerged into Mom’s apartment. The Victorian used to be a singular mansion, but it had long since been split into three separate homes. Mom got the bottom floors, while Ivy and I lived in the two upstairs apartments. Mom’s had the huge family kitchen we’d spent our entire childhoods in, and we usually ate dinner there together.
When I followed the smell of meatloaf through Mom’s quirky apartment—which still had some Christmas decorations up—I found Dean at the dinner table, helping my mom set out dishes for the meal.
“Olivia. Ivy.” Dean set down the placemats and straightened. “Your mom, she—”
“Kidnapped Dean and forced him to have dinner with us against his will,” Mom interjected, taking the mats from him. The countless bangles around her wrists, ankles, and even in her long white, wispy hair, jingled as she moved. “Meatloaf’s your favorite, wasn’t it, Deano?”
Dean blushed and nodded. Deano? It had been a long time since I’d heard that nickname.
My eyes roamed over Dean’s lean, athletic body. To my surprise, he wasn’t in his usual detective suit. He wore a deep-emerald, knitted sweater and a pair of black jeans and boots. The green really brought out his dark hair and grey eyes.
I gulped and focused my attention on the table. “Can I help you guys with anything?”
“Sit and eat,” Mom said, pointing to the chair opposite Dean.
I felt
like a convicted felon about to be interrogated. I winced at how close I’d come to that a month ago.
I sat across from Dean and ran a hand over my hair. Not that I was trying to impress him or anything, but I really wished I’d had time to at least try to fix my hair. I could only imagine how terrified the “freshly blow-dried” look must’ve been on me.
“Ivy, be a darling and help me dish out the food.”
“Sure thing, Mom.”
They circled around us and fussed over the kitchen counters. Underneath the table, I felt my palms turn sweaty and I glanced around the room.
Dean cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “How was your first day on set? I bet you’re glad to be home.”
I smiled. “I am, but it was good to be involved. Different, you know? Intense, but different.”
This was incredibly bad timing. I had no time to sit down to dinner, as much as I wanted to, and all I kept thinking about was the amount of prep work I had to do upstairs. There was no way I’d get any sleep at the rate I was going. Maybe I could use Mom and Ivy’s ovens, too, and save some time, though I hated to ask them for more help. They’d already done so much for me.
“Dinner’s served!”
Mom and Ivy brought over the meatloaf, already sliced with portions of vegetables on the side.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, leaning back as Ivy placed my plate in front of me.
“You all deserve it after such a long day.”
“Speaking of which,” I added, “how was Maritime?”
“The teashop, dear? Oh, it wasn’t burned to the ground. Don’t worry. Here, Deano, you go on and have some extra vegetables. You look too skinny.”
“Mrs. Darrow, I really don’t know what to say.”
“How about grace?” Mom suggested, fluttering her eyelids.
Dean glanced at me, then to Ivy and Mom, who sat beside each other in silence. In a way, it was nice to have a man in the house. And the last man to say grace was my father, who passed away several years ago. It would mean a lot to my mom.
“It would be my honor,” Dean replied, extending his hand across the table to me.
I linked hands with everyone and closed my eyes. My heartbeat hammered in my chest, and I tried to still its violent song as much as I could, while Dean said grace and thanked the lord for what we were about to eat.
“Splendid! That was perfect,” Mom applauded. “Now everyone, tuck in! Bon appétit!”
I hadn’t even swallowed my second mouthful, when Mom spoke again. “So, Dean, I hear you’re divorcing your wife.”
I choked on a chunk of meat, and Ivy slapped my back, extending me a glass of water.
“Yes, Mrs. Darrow. I tried everything in my power for us to stay together, but in the end, it was inevitable. For the better,” he added as an afterthought.
“Will you be staying in San Bas permanently, then? Any luggage? Children? Furbabies?”
“Mom, leave the poor man alone,” I said, catching my breath. I looked at Dean. “Sorry about this. You know what she’s like.”
To my relief, Dean merely smiled, his clean-shaven cheeks dimpling. “I remember,” he said, his eyes sparkling.
Ivy cleared her throat. “So, did you get my text today, Mom?”
“Text?” Mom tilted her head at Ivy, her sapphire eyes widening. “You know I can’t work those cell telephones.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Cell phones. I texted you about Mary Jones. She was burned on set by Olivia’s tea.”
“By accident, of course,” I added, glancing at Dean.
Then I recalled that he’d also been on set that morning. He’d been there before I’d arrived at four a.m. What was he doing there?
“I saw it,” Dean said, causing Ivy to gasp.
“You did?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Then you’d know that I’m innocent.”
He snorted. “You always are. I’d been summoned to the set that morning.”
“What for?” Ivy probed subtly, taking a sip of her water, her eyes glancing at me from over the rim.
She kicked me under the table and I winced.
“With Quintessence and Clark Duncan being on set every day,” Dean said, “they wanted to make sure we entrusted ample security forces. Didn’t you see Detective Woods on set, too?”
I shook my head. “No. Maybe he didn’t fancy eating my food.”
Everyone chuckled, taking another bite of food, then Dean sobered. “Well, he is a man of few words. The director asked us to stick around on the first day, at least.”
That made sense.
“You must be exhausted, too,” Mom noted, reaching over to squeeze Dean on the shoulder.
I had a feeling that when she looked at Dean Harper she didn’t see a scary detective. She still saw him as the fresh-faced, pubescent teenager from my childhood. My high school sweetheart, as she’d often called him. She always said we’d one day marry each other.
“Your wonderful food has certainly helped restore my energy,” Dean said. “It’s incredibly delicious. The meatloaf’s so tender.”
My mom practically melted at the compliment. Coming from me? It would be mediocre. Coming from an attractive man with a gun in his pocket? Whole different kettle of fish.
I glanced at Ivy from the corner of my eye. She was tapping furiously into her phone again and her freckled cheeks were flushed. Usually, Mom never condoned cell phones at the dinner table.
“Ivy, are you okay?” I whispered.
She looked up from her lap and had a somewhat dazed expression in her eyes. “Oh. Yeah. But I need to go upstairs. I can help you bake in a half hour?”
My heart warmed at her offering help. “That would be great, Ivy. I could really use the help.”
As Ivy excused herself from the table, Dean shuffled nervously on his seat.
“I’d offer to help too, Olive, but I’m awful at baking. Awful at any kind of cooking, really.”
“You need a woman’s touch,” Mom said, totally unashamed as she rose up from the table.
“Mom. Let me help you with those dishes,” I said, my tone firm and eyes glaring daggers.
Mom waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine. It’s what I have a dishwasher for.”
A dishwasher that was broken? Though, Mom forgot to mention that.
Behind Dean, Mom pointed to the bay kitchen window. With a raised eyebrow, it took me a moment to realize she was indicating the backyard. Well, she’d gone through all the trouble of bringing Dean to the house. I suppose I had to manage a short walk.
“How about we go outside?”
Dean startled. “Outside? Of course.”
He made his way to the door and I followed closely behind him. A glance over my shoulder showed my mom giving me the thumbs up. Give me strength!
Once we had pulled our winter coats on, we exited through the back door and into the leaf-laden yard. The willow tree that took up most of the yard was bare. Its long, branches brushed the ground, and the faint outline of a swing, built by my father, dangled from inside.
“Will you be on set tomorrow?” I asked, carefully descending the steps. The third one was loose and had yet to be repaired.
Dean, on the other hand, clearly hadn’t the mind to be watchful. When he stepped down from the porch, his goofy-sized boots stumbled forward into leaves. He just managed to catch himself from face-planting the yard.
“Not … tomorrow,” he said, steadying himself. He brushed a hand down his long coat and straightened up. As if I hadn’t watched him nearly fall to his death. “We’ll be organizing a permanent security team, but as far as I know, Quintessence won’t be filming tomorrow. Just her husband.”
Too hungover to even do her job?
Gosh, it sounded just like her.
I inwardly shook my head. I had to let everything go. Otherwise, I’d turn into one of those bitter old hagjexs who stabbed their ceilings with sweeping brushes.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Olive.”
“Thanks,” I said, sitting.
My heart stammered when Dean walked behind me and gently pushed the swing.
“You were saying?” I probed, my eyes wandering over the bare tree branches.
Behind me, Dean took a sharp intake of breath. “Will you be staying in San Bas for some time?”
“What do you mean?”
He pushed again, gently. “Just that, I know you moved to San Fran a while ago, and I wondered if you planned on staying here. Or if you were going to move away again.”
Before I could answer, I heard the back door slam shut.
“Olivia!”
“Ivy?”
We dipped out of the tree, and Ivy—dressed in her bunny rabbit pajamas and fluffy pink slippers—rushed through the yard, holding out her phone.
“He asked me!”
“Who asked what?”
“Wyatt,” she squealed, showing me her phone. “He asked me out on a date!”
My eyes roamed over the text message, and though I only caught the last part of it, ‘may I please take you out to dinner?’ my cheeks widened into a smile. “I knew it would happen eventually.”
Dean peered over my shoulder. “At least he forgave you for accusing him of murder. That’s a good sign.”
I elbowed him in the stomach. “Thanks for that, Detective Harper.”
Dean chuckled and Ivy, practically glowing over the phone, squealed again. Her youthful demeanor filled me with warmth and happiness. Seeing my baby sister happy was one of the best feelings in the world.
Things were beginning to look up for us.
Chapter Six
“What do you mean dead? This is probably another one of her diva outbursts,” Sandra said, her voice cutting as she marched toward Quintessence’s trailer. “She didn’t want to go home after the event, though as usual, she could barely even walk.”
My eyes met Ivy’s, wide and orb-like. "Does she pretend she’s dead often?" Ivy asked under her breath.
Michael swept by our serving table, his face twisted into an emotion I’d never seen him display before. My gut sank with it. Not that I wanted to see Quintessence dead, but my feet moved before I could will them to stop.