by Vicki Hinze
Grant grunted. “Yes, it is.”
“That’s what I told them at the commander’s office. He hired Tommy, so we figured he was the one stalking Della Jackson.”
“Thank you very much,” Grant said. “May I take a picture of this?” He lifted the curled-edge article.
Pete nodded.
Grant snapped a few shots with his phone’s camera, making sure Tommy was in two of them.
Madison extended her hand. “Thank you very much.”
“Is this guy out of play now?” Pete asked.
She wished she could reassure him, but she couldn’t. “I don’t know his disposition, Mr. Jasper. I’m sorry.”
That was a finer line between the truth and not than she cared to walk, especially knowing the man was worried about his son’s safety, but she honestly didn’t know Dayton’s disposition yet. She hated for them to feel they needed to be on guard, but she hated more the idea of them not being guarded and needing to be. Was Dayton working alone? Did he have help? Who knew—yet?
They left the Jasper house and got into the car. When the doors closed, Grant buckled, then looked over at her. “Who got that call at the commander’s office?”
“I would think Blake.”
“So would I.” Grant worried his lip. “Talbot doesn’t know it, or he would have shared it.”
Would he? “One would think.” Madison weighed both sides. “Blake could have taken the call and transferred it to Dayton.”
“Or taken it himself, noted and forgotten it.”
“Possible.” Madison waited for a woman pushing a stroller down the street to pass, then pulled away from the curb. “Blake might have dismissed it. Della’s case didn’t have a military connection.”
Grant frowned. “Apparently it did. We just didn’t know it until now.”
At the corner, Madison stopped. The smell of someone’s backyard barbecue filtered into the car. She turned on the highway and headed toward the Seafood Mart. “So Della’s ex, Jeff Jackson, was arrested for everything on her case. Then a couple of months later, Gary Crawford is arrested, and he confesses to most of the crimes against Della.” An odd tingle started at the base of Madison’s spine. “What’s the date on that newspaper with the photo of Dayton?” She’d looked at it but couldn’t for the life of her remember it.
Grant pulled out his phone and checked the photo. “January 4.”
“So on January 4, Pete Jasper calls the commander’s office and reveals Dayton was involved in Della’s case,” Madison said, letting that information fall into place.
“The phone call—not the fear of Crawford recanting—is what sealed Crawford’s fate.” Grant adjusted the heater vent.
“Maybe. If Blake took Pete’s call and knew Dayton had been identified, then he could make that evidence go away, and Dayton would owe him.” Madison could see Blake doing that. Leverage to feed his ambition.
Grant saw something different. “Or Blake transferred the call from Pete Jasper directly to Dayton, and he buried it.”
“That makes even more sense,” Madison said.
“Why?”
She pulled into the Seafood Mart, parked and looked over at Grant. “Because Tommy Jasper is still alive and so is his father. If Blake was using the call as leverage against Dayton, Dayton would have eliminated the leverage.”
“He would have. Likely he’d have eliminated Blake, too.” Grant grimaced. “Dayton got the call.”
Madison lifted the cooler. “That’s the most logical conclusion.” She reached for her door. “With everything he’d done, I can’t see Dayton leaving witnesses or anyone in place who could implicate him in any crime.”
“Neither can I.” Grant squeezed her hand. “After dinner we’ll take a look at Maggie’s case. Maybe something that ties to Dayton will show up there.”
“Maybe it will.”
* * *
The house held the pungent smell of Zatarain’s Shrimp and Crab Boil. Grant prepared new potatoes and mini ears of corn on the cob while Madison rinsed the shrimp. Soft jazz floated through the kitchen.
Grant scrubbed the vegetables and dropped them in a colander. “I didn’t know you were a jazz fan.”
Madison nodded. “Since my first trip to New Orleans.”
“I knew you were a fan of the city, just not the music.”
“How?” She tumbled the shrimp in the strainer, let the water flow through her fingertips.
“The Zatarain’s was a dead giveaway.” He smiled. “If you weren’t a New Orleans fan, you’d likely use Old Bay.”
He finished cleaning the vegetables. “Should I put them in the pot?”
“Yes.” She blinked hard. The intense spices had her eyes tearing.
“The Saints emblem on the wall in the family room was probably a hint, too. And the mug.” He grinned. “Minnie’s jealous.”
“Minnie’s for at work. She counters all the bad stuff I hear about there. The Saints are for at home.”
They chatted while the potatoes and corn boiled and Madison combined horseradish and ketchup to make a dipping sauce for the shrimp. “Do you want rémoulade sauce, too?”
“No. I like the red.”
Madison smiled. “Me, too.”
Grant grunted. “We have a lot in common.”
They did. And now they were both discovering it, and that was a good thing. Madison had been concerned about how she and Grant would mesh and get along once the trauma embroiling them was over. Crises could forge bonds that fell apart as soon as the crises ended. She didn’t want to fall into that trap, which was why she wouldn’t let Grant explain himself after her release from the Nest. She needed to see how they were together when they weren’t in crisis. True, they were far from calm with so much on the line in their work, but that would always be the case. With the military and working at Lost, Inc., pressure and high stakes were part of the job. But it was different than secrets coming between them, or being divided by conflicts.
So far, having time together—even if they were focused on work—had been a good thing. Very good. Tempted to pinch herself, she dumped the strainer of seafood into the boiling water. The shells instantly turned bright coral.
“Madison, can I tell you something?”
Rinsing the strainer, she glanced at Grant. “Sure.”
“I’d rather be neck-deep in serious trouble with you than anywhere else without you.”
She tilted her head. A man wearing an apron holding a red scrubber held an amazing amount of appeal. “Did that come out wrong?”
“I don’t think so.” He noted her lips twitching. “You’re teasing me. Are you teasing me?”
She laughed. “I am.”
He dipped his chin, looked down at her. “You know what happens when you tease me?”
“I’m hoping I’ll get a kiss,” she said. Laughing, he folded her in his arms.
Madison dropped the strainer in the sink and melted into his embrace.
When he pulled back, he sucked in a sharp, staggered breath.
She left him breathless—and loved knowing it. “Why don’t you get some newspaper and spread it on the table on the patio.”
“What for?”
“Have you never had a proper seafood boil?”
“Apparently not.”
“Oh, then you are in for a treat.” She waved him to the patio. “Spread the paper. Cover the whole table.”
An hour later, they still sat at the newspaper-covered table, its center piled high with shrimp shells. They’d smeared butter and sour cream on the potatoes and corn. The spices had made them hot and delicious—a treat to the taste buds.
“This was a great idea,” Grant said. “I don’t think I’ll ever see a plain potato the same way again.”
It was warm ou
t; pleasant with a light breeze that didn’t carry a chill. “I enjoyed it, too. But I ate way too much.”
He nodded toward the bay. “The water’s calm. Pretty.” He stood up, looked out then back to her. “I see why you love the dock. The view’s amazing.” He started clearing the table.
“No, no.” Madison waved him off. “Take the condiments in and bring out the trash can.”
He did and then stood waiting.
Madison took the can, and shoved the whole mess into it. “Done.”
Grant laughed. “That’s my kind of cleanup.”
“Fabulous, isn’t it?” She giggled.
“Before we go back to work, let’s walk down on the pier.”
“Okay. Just need to wash my hands first.”
“Good idea.”
Minutes later, they walked down the five steps to the dock, then strolled out over the water.
Madison looked at the twinkling lights across the harbor. “This is why I bought this place.”
“Like I said, amazing view.” He stepped up behind her and hugged her. “You love the water—your favorite place at the club is by the water, too.”
“It’s transparent. You can trust what you see.”
“Ah.”
They stood and stargazed a long while, content just being there together.
“Madison?” Grant said softly. “Do you think...” he started, stopped, then tried again. “One day, do you think you can get past what I did and really forgive me?”
“I told you.” She turned in his arms. “I already have.”
“Would I be crazy to hope that one day you could more than forgive me?”
So vulnerable and unsure. It moved her. “No more crazy than me. I—I—” A boat’s horn blasted. She turned back to the water. “Want to come to church with me tomorrow?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “I’ve been wondering if you were going to give me a hard time about breaking from work to go.”
“Not me.” She leaned back into him. “I know Talbot needs our findings as soon as possible, but priorities are priorities.”
“I’m taking it you’re not mad at God anymore.”
She looked back over her shoulder at him, genuinely surprised. “How did you know I was angry with God? I didn’t really know it.”
“I’m not sure. I just knew.”
“Interesting.” She laced their fingers. “I was wrong, regardless. I thought He’d abandoned me, too. But then it hit me. Whatever I needed, came into my path. It was beyond strange, Grant. When I realized how often that had happened...”
“You knew only He could orchestrate it?”
“Exactly. Of course, then I felt like forty kinds of fool for not realizing it before then.”
“I hear you on that. Seems we all do it all the time.”
“I guess.” She sure did.
Grant let out a contented sigh. “This has been a perfect day.”
With grace, she hoped it was the first of many perfect days. They had made a lot of progress, and she was grateful for it. The adversarial relationship between them was gone. The question was, what relationship would they build to replace it?
* * *
Maggie Mason’s case was more complex than Della Jackson’s.
An FBI profiler, Madison’s best friend, Maggie Mason, had been called in on the serial killer, now murder victim, Gary Crawford’s case. She’d gotten too close to catching him, and he’d spent the next three years trying to punish her for it by making Maggie his fifth victim. He’d come dangerously close to succeeding multiple times. The worst, by far, was an incident in Utah that had landed Maggie in the hospital for months.
Finally, Crawford had been apprehended and had confessed to David Pace’s and Beth Crane’s murders along with a string of other crimes.
Working nonstop until Tuesday afternoon, Grant and Madison had wrestled with the timeline, the photos, and pinned the map, color-coding the entries red to differentiate them from the yellow ones that pertained to Della Jackson’s case.
No conflicts were evident.
“I’m stumped.” Madison slumped back in her chair. “It appears Crawford actually did do all of this.”
“Maybe he did.” Grant frowned and tugged at his sweater sleeve. It had gotten chilly again, a crisp forty-five degrees. “Did you read this report about the kids’ Christmas program?”
“What about it?” Madison took a sip of hot chocolate. “I know Crawford planted bombs in the church, but Beecher disarmed them. They ended up holding the Christmas program in the parking lot at Miss Addie’s Café.”
“I’m talking about the part in Maggie Mason’s report where she says Gracie—I’m guessing that’s Miss Addie’s granddaughter, Gracie—was given a black rose by an unidentified male who told her to give it to Maggie.”
“Uh-huh, it was that Gracie, and that’s right. Crawford had a thing for black roses. That’s how Maggie knew to get everyone out of the church.”
“Did Gracie ever identify the man?”
“She didn’t know him—I’m going from memory here, not the report. After Crawford was apprehended, Miss Addie took Gracie down to the station to take a look at Crawford, but she said he wasn’t the man who gave her the rose.”
Grant mulled that over. “She knows Talbot and Dayton, right?”
Madison shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, but she doesn’t miss much and they’re in the café all the time. I’d think she knows them.”
Grant looked up from the report in his hand. “Is Blake at Miss Addie’s Café all the time, too?”
Madison inhaled near her cup, seemingly enjoying the hot chocolate’s scent as much as its taste, and, gauging from her darting eyes, she was scanning her own memory. With Miss Addie’s Café being so close to the agency, Madison was a regular. Had she ever seen Blake there?
“Seems strange that he wouldn’t be known there—everyone in North Bay ends up at Miss Addie’s at some time—but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him there so I don’t know about Gracie.”
A bubble formed in Grant’s gut. If Madison hadn’t seen Blake, maybe Gracie hadn’t, either. “Let’s go find out.”
* * *
Miss Addie was a birdlike woman with sharp features and kind eyes, and everyone agreed she was the best cook in four counties.
Madison and Grant, along with more than half of North Bay, were regulars, and headed for their usual table in the back near the door to the outside dining room. It was popular in summer but vacant during the winter months unless there was a warm, sunny day.
Today, it was raining. Hard.
Madison propped her umbrella in the stand by the door. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but a couple dozen people had slipped in out of the rain for coffee and dessert.
Miss Addie spotted them and walked over. “Well, I ain’t seen you two in a week. Thought you’d given me up for that new joint down the street using lacy tablecloths.”
Grant looked bewildered. “There’s a new joint down the street?” He started to rise. “We should check it out.”
Miss Addie pushed down on his shoulder. “Park yourself, boy. I hear Pauline Colfax is their head cook.”
“Pauline?” Madison couldn’t believe it. “Why would anyone hire her to cook?”
“Beats me.” Miss Addie dropped her voice. “The poor woman don’t know a spoon from a spatula, and can’t boil water. Bless her heart.”
Grant grunted. “Maybe you should give her lessons.”
She looked at him and grinned. “That would be the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t it? Now, what can I get you today?” She scanned back over her shoulder. “I got red velvet cake, carrot cake— Whoops. Jack Sampson just snitched the last piece of carrot cake. Sorry. What else is over there, Gracie?�
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The girl called out from the kitchen. “Apple pie and that crunchy blueberry stuff, Gran.”
“I’ll have the crunchy stuff.” Madison grinned.
“No Key lime?” Grant was disappointed.
“Grant Deaver, you’re gonna turn into a Key lime.” She tsked at Madison. “I’ve never seen a man that loves it better.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” Grant placed his napkin in his lap.
“Well, I had one put aside in the back to take home tonight, but I can spare you a piece.”
Grant grinned. “You’re a saint, Miss Addie.”
“No, darlin’, that I ain’t. But I like a man who loves what he loves with his whole heart.” She meandered to her kitchen.
Madison bit her lower lip.
“She’s got a story to tell about that, doesn’t she?”
“Unfortunately.” Madison frowned at Grant. “Her husband went out for milk and bread and didn’t come back. He left her with no money and no way to support herself and her daughter.” Which explained why she made a point of warning girls never to put all their eggs in anyone else’s basket, including Madison.
“How long ago?”
“Twenty or more years.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch.” Madison nodded, adding weight to her opinion. “She knew how to cook and clean. So she did a lot of both. Now she owns a bunch of rental cottages and the café.”
“She’s walked a hard road. Retiring will give her a chance to do what she wants to do rather than what she has to do to get by.”
Madison smiled. “Miss Addie isn’t going to retire, Grant.”
“But she just said—”
“She’ll teach Pauline because she has kids to feed and she can’t cook. Without Miss Addie, Pauline will fail.”
“So she’ll help her competition succeed?”
Madison sent him an indulging look. “She will, but Pauline will no longer be Miss Addie’s competition.”
“She’ll see she’s in over her head and come to work here for Miss Addie.”
Madison nodded.
Grant grunted. “Humph. She’ll make it a win/win. Good for her and Pauline.”