“Why not go back to New York?” Ree leveled a look at Vivien over her drumstick. “And don’t feed me the line about great-actors-make-great-directors. You’ve always wanted to be on the stage.”
Vivien swallowed. Because how could she admit that twice she’d failed? The gasps, the finger-pointing. The muffled words uttered in low tones behind the hands that covered their faces.
“Sometimes our dreams change.” She grabbed a Coke for herself and opened the can. Okay, so the dream was still there. She just didn’t know how she’d ever follow through.
“What are these?” Ree was standing over the kitchen trash can, an empty chicken bone in one hand and several black roses in the other.
Oh. Whoops. “Nothing.”
“Black roses in the trash aren’t ‘nothing.’”
Vivien feigned a noncommittal shoulder shrug. “They were on the porch.”
Ree sucked in a breath. “With our Fish Pic decorations?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would anyone put these garish things out with our papier-mâché walleye and trout? They don’t exactly go together.”
Vivien raised her brows. “Does anything actually go with giant papier-mâché fish?”
Ree narrowed her eyes. “I think my selection of rods, reels, and nets do quite nicely. Who knew I’d find such treasures at the antique store?”
“But the fish, Ree. They’re four feet long and hang from the rafters. I think you scared off the neighbors for all time.”
Vivien’s phone buzzed again and she picked it up. This time a text from Joslyn.
I THINK YOU’RE IN DANGER.
What?
A second message arrived after she’d cleared her notifications.
RAVIL FIRED ME TOO. SOMETHING’S GOING ON.
Ree laughed. “Just wait until you see what I’m planning for Halloween.”
Vivien took the flowers from Ree and shoved them back into the can. Several fell to the floor and she bent down to scoop them up.
“Your hands are shaking, Viv. Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Something’s going on.” Ree stood back, her arms crossed over her chest.
Vivien shoved those last few into the can too. “Really. Nothing.”
“You can’t lie to me. What are those black roses from?”
Vivien sighed. Considered Ree’s demand. “I don’t know. There’s just…” She could see Sabrina sauntering around the car show.
“What?”
“It was probably Sabrina. Just trying to get to me.” And, truly, the black roses did pretty much sum up her stage life. Something that was supposed to be beautiful—amazing, even—that had instead turned dark and ugly. She snatched the last remnants off the floor and the petals shattered. She brushed her hands together over the trash can, letting the final crumbled rose petals fall in.
You’re in danger.
“Why was she here this time?”
“I didn’t stick around to ask. Probably staying at one of the lodges for the weekend. She’s always prided herself on making my life miserable—showing up in town to surprise me.” Vivien walked over to the table and retrieved her drink. “I’ve never understood it. I’m the one who lost everything.” Shoot. She wasn’t ready for that conversation. She paused. Then, “You know we’ve never been on good terms. It was probably her. I’m sure she’ll crawl back to Minneapolis by tomorrow. We’re too small-town for her.”
“Wait a minute. Probably her?”
“Yeah.”
Ree came up to the table. “What aren’t you telling me? Who else could it be?”
Vivien rubbed her hand across her brow. “You’re going to give me frown lines and I am really not into Botox.”
“Tell that to your false eyelashes. I want the truth, Viv. Who else could it have been?” Ree crossed her arms again and leaned against the countertop.
“Could have been her. Don’t you have a story to write?” She looked up, smiled like she was in a toothpaste commercial.
Ree was staring at her with the I-can-do-this-all-day look.
Fine. “There was this guy—a fan, I suppose. He started showing up all the time. Everywhere I went. Like he was…stalking me or something.”
Ree’s brows raised. “You had a stalker? Why didn’t you say something?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know—it’s like, I couldn’t nail him down on anything exactly against the law.” And she’d never told the police.
“Vivien, that’s creepy. Stalking is a crime.”
She’d thought so too. But no one at the theater had believed her. Her director, Ravil Kozlovsky, and her understudy, Joslyn Vanderburg, had both laughed in her face. Who would want to stalk you? As if that was how those kinds of crimes worked. They’d told her she was overreacting.
Maybe she was. “He always had a good excuse. He showed up at the gym and said he was a member there—had started a new job and changed his workout time. Or the coffee shop. He’d just appear there, like he was passing by. So many coincidences.”
And yet, everyone told her he was harmless.
Of course, then there was the memory of Joslyn and Ravil in their intimate embrace outside the ritzy Harry Cipriani. It made her cringe.
“Viv, that’s serious. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“I felt like a fool.” All the doubts they’d fed her seemed to rise up, as if to swallow her whole. “He always made it seem…plausible.” Made her look like she was crazy. Too dramatic. A prima donna. “He’d leave black roses.”
Ree reached out and touched Vivien’s arm. “Do you think he’d come here?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Sabrina, trying to twist the knife a little deeper.” Vivien laughed, probably a little too boldly to convince Ree. “Well, I got her, didn’t I?”
Ree was still staring at her. “Could he find you here?”
Vivien looked at the trash can. “I don’t know how he’d find me here.” Except, well, she hadn’t exactly thought to make her life secret. She’d posted updates on her Facebook page of the play, and even before that, pictures of her at the Java Cup, or standing on the shore. Selfies meant to show the world that she was fine.
Just. Fine.
Even a first grader could have found her.
“Viv?”
“I’m so stupid. All my social media. Our playbill even had biographical sketches about each cast member. I put it right out there, in black and white. So, yeah. He would know where I live. Really, Sabrina probably left them just to spite me.”
“It still seems a bit…sinister, doesn’t it? Charred black roses?”
“I told you she isn’t very nice. But, really—I’m sure it’s nothing.” Everyone was probably right. She was too dramatic. Overreacting. She swallowed. Maybe she didn’t even believe herself anymore.
She swept the trash can back under the cabinet and shut the door. Put on her red-carpet smile. The show must go on.
But the flowers felt like an omen. She shuddered, slipped into their wallpapered bathroom, and leaned close to the mirror.
She flicked the base of her false lashes with her fingernail, willing the rubbery glue to relinquish her lids back to their natural state for the night. She managed to loosen an edge and peeled the long strip off, setting it onto the plastic mold. She pried the second one off, snapped the plastic case closed, and washed her face.
The bathroom countertop of the Fifth Avenue West bungalow was a postage stamp compared to the wall-length one in her old dressing room. While the thirteen square inches might satisfy Ree, Vivien found it desperately lacking.
She scooped up her collection of powders, creams, lipsticks, and brushes from the countertop and tucked them back into the tacklebox-style organizer, adding her false lashes before latching it.
Failure hounded her. Had chased her back to Deep Haven twice. And if she didn’t find a way to make the community theater a success, well, then she was everything the critics who’d seen her epic fail had sai
d.
Naive. Unseasoned. Not suited for theater—or anything else, to hear them tell it.
Regrettable and forgettable. A poor imitation.
Because without a role, without her name on the marquee, she was just a silly girl with a dream. Like thousands of others.
Vacation should include more sleep. Unfortunately, Boone’s night had been spent tossing and turning, his investigative drive dissecting the curious find on Vivien’s porch. The one she didn’t want to talk about that had his wheels spinning. He’d finally rolled out of bed before sunrise and slipped on his running gear. Let his feet carry him down the trails through the brisk morning.
The cold air burned his lungs as he sucked in gasps at the end of his run. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t kept up his cardio fitness as well as he should have. He pressed his hand against his chest and clambered up the cabin steps to watch the sunrise paint the sky fiery orange and red. Tried to slow his breathing with deep breaths.
Nope, nothing like an early morning run to remind himself of the doctor’s words.
You have a heart murmur.
He still couldn’t believe the doctor had told him he needed to ease back into exercising. Manage his stress. And wait for the readings of his echocardiogram.
Information he was eager to keep private, especially from his boss, whose name popped up on Boone’s CallerID as he reviewed his pace time on his cell phone app. He should have known his boss would check up on him before he’d even spent twenty-four hours in Deep Haven. He slid into the lounge chair on the deck where he could watch the waves tumble in on Lake Superior. The lake’s dark depths had answered the sunrise with a mirrored glow.
He clicked the call button on his phone. Steve Landry, Kellogg’s police chief, greeted him.
The chief, whose lean, lanky figure belied the depth and breadth of the man himself. His wavy hair, now gray, was the only rebellious thing about the lawman. How many times had he mentored Boone over the years?
Steve was calling from his office at the police station, probably getting ready to sit in on roll call. Boone could almost taste the fresh pastries in the break room and hear the laughter from the locker room as everyone geared up for the day.
“I’ve barely unpacked and you’re already harassing me?” Boone teased. The sun had broken the horizon, the heat of it warming Boone’s cooling body. “You must be calling to tell me you’ve changed your mind.” As good as it was to see Caleb, staying in Deep Haven, facing hours alone at the cabin, left Boone with too much silence. And silence led to thinking. And too much thinking went to places he didn’t want to go—places he couldn’t go, especially when he started Monday-morning quarterbacking every mistake he’d made.
“No. Just making sure you’re doing well. I spoke with Rachelle and she’s got you on her schedule for Wednesday.”
Boone let out a groan. “I really don’t think it’s necessary for me to see her.” He got up, opened the cabin door, stepped inside, and grabbed the towel he’d left on the living room table.
“See her once a week. Deal with your anger issues.”
“I don’t have any anger issues.” Even schooling his voice didn’t keep the hard edge out of it. He blotted the sweat off his face and neck.
“Well, you might.” Landry’s firm tone softened. “Rachelle needs to clear you before you come back.”
“Why? She’s not officially on staff or the department’s payroll,” Boone pressed. There had to be some way to get Landry to drop this ridiculous plan.
“My rule, Boone. I’ve known you too long to let you slide. Make sure your head is on right. Pursue some hobbies.”
“I have a hobby. My Mustang.” Boone toed off his shoes.
“You’ve had her restored for more than ten years. Nice as she is, maintenance is not a hobby.”
Boone pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and tried to rub the tension off his forehead. “I don’t need hobbies. I have my career.”
“And you’re married to it.”
The words, no matter how true, still cut. Yeah, well, not everyone got lucky in love. Landry had been married more than thirty-five years. Five kids. Eight grandchildren.
He couldn’t know what it was like to hit his mid-thirties with only his career status to show for it. To have his entire identity now facing destruction. Because that’s really what this was about. Everything that made Boone valuable was in his job as lead detective for the Kellogg Police Department. Without it, he was…nothing.
Boone opened the refrigerator, hunger hitting him hard, and set the eggs on the counter.
“You keep working like you’ve been, letting all that frustration and bitterness build, you’re going to burn out. And next time, you might get into worse trouble. You might not be able to rein yourself in, and then those charges might stick.”
“I’m fine.” Always fine. No matter what, he knew how to survive and work through the grind. “I really feel like I’d do more good being back in Kellogg.” He stood at the open window and watched the breeze tease the thin boughs of the nearby birch trees, the leaves rustling and the light playing across the shimmery leaves.
He opened the window over the sink farther and pulled a frying pan from a cupboard.
“Do this. For both of us.”
“Why, Steve? I still don’t get it. Why am I being punished?” He’d worked hard to be the go-to guy, and now, it still felt like he would lose the ground he’d gained in Kellogg. Like, somehow, he hadn’t quite moved himself into solid standing in the community. Always one step away from being cast out.
“It’s more of a vacation than a punishment.”
Boone let out a sharp laugh. “Call it what you want, but I know what it really is. You wanted to take me off the streets.” He added a hunk of butter to the pan and turned on the stove before pulling a bowl from the dish rack, cracking two eggs into it, and scrambling them with a fork.
“You know I didn’t have a choice, right?” Instead of growing defensive, the chief took the tone of the mentor he’d always been. “If I didn’t put you on admin leave after the investigation, it would have looked like we didn’t care. It would have hurt the department.” He paused, his voice turning from mentor to father figure. “In the long run, it would have hurt you.”
“I didn’t cross the line, Steve.” The eggs sizzled when he dumped them into the hot pan. He began rummaging through the drawers, looking for a turner.
“I know, but…appearances. And, be honest with yourself. It was as close as close could be. You were a breath away from obliterating the line—and your career.”
Boone could still see the smug look on the perp’s face. Nearly a smirk when Boone had arrived to arrest him on murder charges in his condo—the one he’d paid for with stolen money. Like Margaret Vincent’s brutal death was funny. How the slick marble counters and ivory carpet had stood in stark contrast to the darkness within the man’s eyes.
His jaw tightened, the sick feeling coiling in his stomach.
He began opening and closing drawers on his frantic hunt for a turner to scramble and flip his eggs. Come on—the kitchen was tiny. Where would they put the cooking utensils?
It wasn’t his fault the guy had resisted arrest and gotten hurt in the process. He’d tried three times to calm the guy down. Boone hated the term police brutality—not that it didn’t happen in the world—but he’d known many officers who’d been hurt. So, he’d taken special care. But, yeah, he could admit he might have lost it when the man told him he’d put the old woman out of her misery, the way she’d begged for mercy. How her frail body had crumpled on the floor after he’d struck her. Then he’d spit in Boone’s face.
He slammed another drawer shut and pulled open another one.
And then the suspect had pulled out of Boone’s grip. Tried to run again.
Maybe he had taken him down too hard. Maybe he should have let someone else take over.
His fingers finally latched onto a metal turner and he tugged it from the drawer.
He flipped his eggs, on the dark side of done. Lovely. He turned off the burner and plated his eggs.
Maybe he did need some time off.
“Boone, I’ve never seen you so close to losing control, and that’s something you really need to get a handle on if you want a shot at being the next chief.”
“Is it really about me? Or public appearances?” He sat down at the small table with his eggs and book. Took a bite.
“No. It’s about you. Your future. And the fact that my best detective is worn thin.”
Boone remained silent, his food turning to paste in his mouth.
“I’m worried about you. I don’t want to see your career derailed. When the chief position opens up—”
“Kellogg already has a chief.” Boone sat up, knocked his book to the floor.
“Well, that’s the other reason I called.” Landry cleared his throat. Boone imagined him leaning back, his feet up on his desk, staring at the gallery of family photos that lined his office walls. “Cynthia and I’ve had some long talks and we feel it’s time for me to retire. I’ve put in my notice and the position will be advertised this week. I was hoping they’d sit on it, but they want the selection made fairly fast.”
Retire. An opening for the chief slot. Maybe the validation he’d been seeking all these years. Because, yeah, he didn’t have a wife or a family. He had his job. And he was good at it. At least, he thought he was.
But maybe good cops didn’t miss clues and let eighty-year-old women get beaten and murdered.
“You’re really going to retire?” Boone had a hard time picturing the iconic chief hanging up his badge and holster for good.
“I’ve done a lot here, enjoyed it even. But this job, it isn’t my life. I’ve missed out on so much with my wife, my kids. Now Cynthia and I have all the grandkids to enjoy. I don’t want my legacy to be just my public service. I want my legacy to be my family. The time I spent with them. The man I was to them.”
Then Came You Page 4