“That’s hard to say. Rapunzel, maybe.”
“‘Let down your hair.’ Not a bad metaphor for life.” Russ poured wine and handed her a glass. He held up his. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Kylie raised the lid on the dinner basket and lifted out the contents. “Grilled chicken, green salad, gratin potatoes and cookies. It all smells good, doesn’t it?”
“No argument from me.”
“Are you concerned Miss Stewart will back out of the class on Saturday?”
“No.”
A quick, certain answer. But that was his style, Kylie realized. “It doesn’t sound as if there’s a huge financial commitment. People will be disappointed if she backs out at the last minute, but if she’s donating her time and Mark’s donating the space, it won’t be a disaster.”
“Ruby and Ava have invited theater people from New York and Boston.”
“It’ll be an embarrassment, but it won’t be their fault if they do their part and Daphne doesn’t do hers.”
“Their judgment would come into question. They’re starting their last year of graduate school. They’re already thinking about what’s next.”
“Ah. I hadn’t looked at it that way.”
He and Kylie brought the food to the table. She’d set the table for three before Ruby and Russ had arrived and Ruby had taken off. “We should eat while the chicken and potatoes are still hot,” Kylie said, placing her wineglass on the table and pointing to the chair across from her. “Have a seat. Welcome.”
“Thanks.” He winked at her as he sat. “Much better than having dinner alone in the rain, don’t you think?”
She mumbled something innocuous and neutral. They passed the serving dishes, helping themselves to Maggie Sloan’s amazing way with food. Kylie had heard about how good Maggie was with everything from her sons’ birthday parties to a wedding but hadn’t experienced her cooking herself.
“Maybe Ruby will calm down once Ava gets here,” Kylie said.
“Maybe,” Russ said. “She’s majoring in theater management. She might bring a different perspective. If they want to start a children’s theater in Knights Bridge, it would be good to show potential supporters they can pull off a class in costume design and have contacts like Daphne—and sway with them. Not many people have sway with Daphne.”
Kylie frowned. “A children’s theater—in Knights Bridge, you mean?”
He nodded, his dark blue eyes on her. “They want to take over the meeting space here at Moss Hill and turn it into a community children’s theater. It would serve the area, not just Knights Bridge.”
“I didn’t realize...” Kylie tried the gratin potatoes. “A theater here at Moss Hill. Wow. That’s a huge undertaking.”
“Ava and Ruby—Ruby especially—seem to have a lot of big dreams.”
“Is that a knock on them?”
He shrugged. “An observation. Do you have big dreams, Kylie?”
She had the distinct feeling he was trying to trip her up. She raised her wineglass. “Oh, sure. Win the lottery, spend a year in Tuscany—”
“What about career dreams?”
She smiled. “Maybe those are career dreams.”
“I’m trying to understand what a children’s book illustrator dreams about.”
“Right now, a wolf preying on an innocent grandmother and tricking an adventurous girl coming to visit. Not the most pleasant of dreams, I can tell you. I have quite a nasty wolf in mind. I haven’t begun sketching him yet, though.” She drank some of her wine. “Better to dream about Tuscany, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” His tone said he knew she was being evasive, but he picked up his wineglass and smiled. “Here’s to that year in Tuscany.”
“What about you?” Kylie asked. “Do you have big dreams?”
“I tend to live in the present.”
Kylie wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or if he was perfectly serious, but his comment effectively closed off that subject. They dove into dinner, chatting amiably about the town. She explained what she knew about the history of the reservoir and local people with roots in the lost towns. He’d been reading a book on Quabbin that Ruby or the Flanagans had put in his borrowed apartment and offered a few tidbits of interest Kylie hadn’t known—for one, that people used to come by train from nearby towns to work in the valley mills. It was called the “rabbit train,” given its number of stops over a short distance. But the water that had attracted a smattering of mill owners to the rural towns of the Swift River Valley had also attracted engineers and politicians looking for a source of drinking water for the growing city to the east.
“I should have Maggie cook for me when I’m on a tight deadline,” Kylie said as she and Russ finished dinner. “I’d eat better. The country store has decent homemade food, but I can’t always take the time to get there. Or I don’t, even if I could.”
“What are some of your staples for imminent deadlines?”
“Whatever I can cook and clean up fast. I try to eat healthy. Sometimes I’ll make up something I can eat all week. Roast a chicken, do up a pot of chili, that sort of thing.”
“And when you’re not on a tight deadline?”
“It’s not that different.”
“But you like your work,” he said, studying her from across the table.
She felt heat rise in her cheeks. How had she let the subject turn back to her? She smiled. “Very much. Do you like your work?”
“It suits me. When I went out on my own after the navy, I discovered how easy it is to let your life get out of balance when you’re your own boss. Is that what happened to you—why you moved to Knights Bridge?”
“I guess you could say that.” She kept any defensiveness out of her tone. “You must have intense times in your work when you can’t do much else. Like now—you’re on the job, not on vacation.”
He leaned over the table slightly. “I’m having dinner with an intriguing woman.”
“A woman you don’t quite trust.” The words were out before Kylie could stop them.
“Only because you’re hiding something,” he said.
She didn’t look away from him. “I’m protective of my work,” she said truthfully. “I don’t like talking about it, especially when I’m in the midst of a project. I find that talking dissipates creative energy that needs to go into the work.”
“Does that mean I don’t get to see your wolf before it’s in print?”
His eyes were half-closed, but his sardonic tone and almost-smile helped take the edge off her nerves. “Sometimes I’ll show concepts to people—if, say, I can’t decide between two or three different wolves.”
“How often is ‘sometimes?’”
“Not often.” She got to her feet and fetched the wine bottle, dividing the last of the merlot between their two glasses. “Do you talk about your work?”
“When it’s necessary.”
“Here’s my take.” She set the empty bottle on the counter and sat back down with her wine. “I think you focus on doing the job you were hired to do and don’t worry about the niceties. What do you think, am I close?”
“Close. Sometimes I have to worry about niceties.”
“And how often is ‘sometimes,’ PI Colton?”
He laughed, surprising her. “Touché, Kylie. About as often as you’re open with other people about your work.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but she suspected he knew it. The man had great control, and he no doubt was good at his job and knew how to pry information out of people. But she didn’t bite by attempting to correct him. “It must be interesting working for a Beverly Hills law firm,” she said. “Do you have good colleagues?”
“Excellent colleagues. That helps. Julius Hartley is a friend, and he has a great deal of
experience with law firm investigations. I’m newer to the work.”
“He has more experience handling clients like Daphne Stewart, too, I bet.”
“A facility with ‘niceties’ comes in handy with her.”
He shifted the conversation to the pair of ducks he’d spotted on the river. They’d braved a break in the rain, and the rush of water over the dam. “Wonder where they are now,” he said, getting up from the table. He seemed to debate what to do next, if only for a split second. He picked up his wineglass and walked over to the tall windows. “Where’s the house you rented?”
Kylie stood next to him. “You can’t see it from here. It’s just past the covered bridge up the river.”
“The one with the gray shingles, then. I thought so. I was up there yesterday on my run. Do you have anyone you check in with on a regular basis—in case anything happens?”
“My parents and sister and I check in with each other. I leave a note on the kitchen counter when I go for walks and carry my phone with me in case of emergency. But it’s not something I worry a lot about. Knights Bridge isn’t a high-crime area, and I don’t do extreme hiking by myself.”
She noticed she had less wine in her glass than he did in his, perhaps not the best sign since she was trying to measure her words. He was already suspicious. She didn’t need to give him more reasons to pry into her life. She wasn’t sure how he would react to finding out she was Morwenna Mills, but she didn’t need to find out. She was determined to stick to her own timetable, whatever it ended up being.
She pointed her glass in the vague direction of the river. “It was something to watch the ice jams this winter and early spring. Fortunately, they didn’t cause any major flooding.”
“That’s good.” He gave a mock shudder and grinned. “Ice. A frozen river. Not what I want to think about right now.”
“You must be glad this master class wasn’t in February.”
“You’d have still been in your house up the road. I’d probably be staying with the goats at Ruby’s mother’s house. You and I might never have met.”
“Destiny at work, maybe,” Kylie said lightly.
There was nothing light about him as he turned to her. “Maybe.” But he started for the table. “I’ll help clean up the dishes and be on my way. I can return the basket to Ruby. It was decent of her sister to make us dinner.”
Kylie welcomed the change in subject. Why had she brought up destiny? Pure self-consciousness, she thought. That or too much wine. “Have you met Maggie yet?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“She’s good friends with Olivia Frost—Olivia McCaffrey now.”
“That’s what I hear. Do you know them well?”
“Just enough to say hi to.”
“The busy artist,” he said with a smile.
Kylie didn’t detect any condescension in his tone.
He went over to the table and blew out the candles, then collected dishes and silverware and took them to the sink. She watched him, wondered what it would be like to have such a man in her life—to talk to over wine and help with the dishes. But she didn’t trust herself now, with the merlot, her solitary habits. She’d encountered more people in the past few days than she had since moving into Moss Hill in March. She wasn’t used to it, but she didn’t object. At the same time, she doubted prolonged solitude explained her reaction to Russ Colton. He was perceptive, he had a sense of humor, and he seemed sympathetic and understanding of Ruby’s jitters and even Daphne Stewart’s drama. He was tough and focused, but he wasn’t prone to drama or overreacting himself. Kylie was grateful he hadn’t brought up the rumors about Moss Hill over dinner.
But she knew she wasn’t always the best judge of people. Given her natural tendency to like everyone she met, she could be oblivious and overlook basic facts.
Such as Russ lived in California and was going back there.
Soon.
At the door, basket in hand, he paused, then kissed her on the cheek. “Nice getting to know you better, Kylie,” he said, close enough that she could feel the brush of his jacket against her.
He was out the door before she got her next breath.
* * *
It was twenty minutes before Kylie noticed Sherlock Badger in his spot on her task lamp.
She’d missed him. Completely. She’d talked to him while cleaning up the place, and still she hadn’t tucked him out of sight in a drawer or a box or, better yet, under her pillow, since there was no chance Russ would get close to her bedroom, quick kiss or no quick kiss.
“Sherlock,” she said. “Damn, why couldn’t you have spoken up?”
He was such a part of her day-to-day life that she hadn’t thought of him as a dead giveaway to Morwenna. She’d made him to give herself a different perspective on her badgers, a sense of what they might look like if they were real. A lark, procrastination, a necessity—whatever it had been, she’d enjoyed the process and enjoyed having him there to talk to.
Had Russ seen Sherlock?
Of course he had.
Russ was an experienced investigator. He wouldn’t need much time to discover the little badger on her lamp was an exact rendition of Sherlock Badger in a popular series of children’s books created by author and illustrator Morwenna Mills.
If he decided to investigate. He might not care about a four-inch stuffed badger.
But he cared about her and what she was hiding.
Would he find out she was Morwenna tonight? By morning?
Kylie groaned. All that cleaning in an attempt to maintain control of dinner, and she’d never had control. She’d flat-out missed Sherlock. She debated grabbing him and knocking on Russ’s door, telling him about Morwenna herself, but what good would that do?
She touched her cheek where he’d kissed her.
Why borrow trouble?
She was staying put.
Ten
Kylie Shaw had clearly done her best to sanitize her apartment of all specific references to her work before letting him in.
Russ turned on lights in his own apartment and set the basket on the kitchen counter. He’d wash the serving dishes later.
His apartment was larger than Kylie’s but not by much. He’d noticed straight away that she’d done more than tidied and dusted before guests arrived. It wasn’t just the space itself that had given her away, but her reaction when he’d taken a look around.
She must have scrambled when Ruby O’Dunn had maneuvered her into hosting dinner. Had Ruby wanted to get a look inside Kylie’s apartment, too?
He sat in a leather chair by the unlit fireplace. It was a night for a fire, but he found himself enjoying the damp, chilly air. He got out his phone. He thought he might be onto what Kylie didn’t want people to know. Either that or he was totally off base, wrong and losing his mind.
He checked his photos and came to the one he’d taken surreptitiously while she’d unloaded the food basket. He held it under the lamp for a good, close look.
“Yes, sir, we have a badger.”
His cagey neighbor had slipped up.
He was almost certain Kylie hadn’t meant him to see the cute stuffed badger standing at the base of the lamp on her worktable. It was about four inches tall and looked handmade, crafted from bits of wool fabric and who-knew-what-else. Russ’s sewing skills began and ended with the occasional button, snap and tear.
The badger was dressed up like Sherlock Holmes, complete with a deerstalker hat and classic Victorian tweed overcoat.
Russ had the feeling he was supposed to recognize the little critter.
He texted the photo to Marty. Any idea who this is?
Marty’s response was almost instantaneous. Sherlock Badger.
Who?
Badgers of Middle Branch. Kids books. Popular.
Talk of a movie.
Thanks. Keep this quiet for now.
Daphne?
Tell no one. Her, Julius, your screenwriting pals.
Got it. Mum.
Russ tossed his phone onto the side table and got out his laptop.
In three seconds he had his answer.
Morwenna Mills was the illustrator and author of a series of books about a family of badgers in a small town called Middle Branch. Their lives centered around their veterinary office and quirky house and the town.
Sherlock Badger was the lawman of the family, but he worked in “the city” and only came to Middle Branch once in a while.
This, according to a description of the characters on Morwenna’s website.
Not much on her. In fact, the “About Morwenna” section was deliberately geared to kids—short, amusing, not intended to be taken as a serious, professional description of her. Grew up in New England. Loved animals, long walks in the woods, making chocolate chip cookies and picking apples.
Morwenna lives on a river near a covered bridge, where she is deep into her next Badger book.
Not enough by itself to peg Kylie Shaw as Morwenna Mills, but in combination with the stuffed badger and Kylie’s behavior—it was plenty.
Russ continued his research. He was comfortable confirming, if only to himself, that his dinner companion was the creator of the Badgers of little Middle Branch.
By the time he and Ruby had arrived with the picnic basket, he’d just about convinced himself Kylie had something really unsettling to hide.
Nope. Badgers.
The fourth book in the series had been released in November, another instant hit. The popularity of Morwenna Mills and the Badgers was still on the upswing.
He found one short interview with Morwenna, done last summer, no mention of Knights Bridge or her real name—and no photographs. The article described her as living in rural New England and inspired by her long walks in the woods.
“Well, well,” Russ said, shutting down his laptop and setting it aside.
His neighbor across the hall was hiding something, just not what he’d imagined.
The Spring at Moss Hill Page 10