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“But if you find out he’s done something illegal, don’t you have to tell the police?”

Which was also what Zetta Nadeau had asked me before speaking in more detail about her missing boyfriend. Perhaps Wyatt Riggins was simply cursed with one of those faces. Perhaps I was too.

“Only if asked about it directly in the course of a criminal investigation, or if the crime involves a child. The rest I tackle on a case-by-case basis, but I incline toward discretion. It’s better for business.”

Lawrence toyed with her silver straw. Like the gourd and BrightBlown itself, it was shiny and new but would weather with time. Weathering was good, tarnishing not so good, and Lawrence had BrightBlown’s reputation to consider.

“Wyatt was recommended to us by one of our budtenders, Jason Rybek,” she resumed. “Jason’s been here longer than I have. He should really be a dispensary manager, but he doesn’t embrace responsibility.” She hacked up a humorless laugh. “That’s another thing about the industry: it attracts individuals who’ve been smoking pot for so long that they may lack motivation. Some of them are surprised by how hard the work is, but those ones often fall by the wayside. Jason is just laid-back enough.”

Maybe I’d been right to take that parking space as a good omen. Lawrence had given me Jason Rybek without my having to reveal myinterest in him. If I’d been a gambling man, I’d have bought a Megabucks ticket on the way home.

“Is Jason around?”

“He’s off today, but he’ll be at the farm tomorrow. He likes to spend a few days a week working directly with the plants. Says it gives him a better sense of them. He knows his stuff, so who am I to argue?”

“Would you have his address, or a phone number?”

But that was as far as Lawrence was willing to go where Jason Rybek was concerned.

“Why don’t you speak to him face-to-face tomorrow, Mr. Parker? I prefer not to give out the personal contact details of employees. It’s a trust issue, not to mention a legal one.”

It might also give her time to contact Rybek and advise him that a private investigator would soon be asking him questions about Wyatt Riggins.

“Did Riggins appear frightened lately, or overly watchful around strangers?” I asked.

“Wyatt was always edgy. I think it was his disposition, or had become part of it. He served in the military, but I’m sure you know that. He told me he was taking medication for PTSD and was careful about what he bought here with his staff discount. He wanted to be sure it balanced with his meds.”

Lawrence checked her watch. “I have to go, Mr. Parker. I have a Zoom meeting at four that I need to prepare for.”

I put away the notebook. We were done, more or less. Lawrence escorted me back to the dispensary.

“By the way,” I said, “does the name Devin Vaughn mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so.” But she didn’t look at me as she answered.

“You have a boss, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he has a boss?”

“I would assume so.”

“Well, my understanding is that somewhere between that boss and God is Devin Vaughn.”

We were at the counter now. Lawrence unlocked the hatch so I could leave.

“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Parker?”

“Because sooner or later, Devin Vaughn will discover that I’m trying to find Wyatt Riggins. When he does, be sure to spell my name right.”

CHAPTERXXVIII

Seeley sat at the bar of the Springwater Supper Club & Lounge in West Nashville. Despite being the oldest continuously operating bar in the state of Tennessee, or so it was said, the Springwater was not among his usual haunts. He didn’t drink beer, which was the only alcohol served there. Neither did he like playing pool, darts, or listening to live music. In fact, Seeley didn’t like very much at all, books excepted, and was close to just one person, though the physical aspect of their relationship had ceased years before. The woman in question knew him as well as anyone alive, even if that knowledge didn’t extend to his real name. She was aware it wasn’t Eugene Seeley, but since that was the only name she’d ever called him, she was content to delve no deeper. More to the point, she was familiar with his activities, and facilitated them. Without her, Seeley would have struggled. If love and need were the same, he supposed he loved her.

It was 2:30 p.m., and happy hour at the Springwater began at 3:00, so Seeley had half an hour before the afternoon drinkers drifted in. His soda stood untouched. He’d ordered it only to have a reason to stay. At 2:45, a man in his mid-twenties entered, ordered a Tiny Bomb, and laid hisTennesseanon the barstool before heading to the restroom. Only someone looking closely might have spotted that there were, in fact, two copies ofThe Tennessean, though when Seeley departed moments later, just one remained.

Seeley was a man who understood the danger of electronic footprints; while the internet was undoubtedly useful, he preferred to let others utilize it at his behest. In his car, he removed the envelope concealed between pages six and seven. In addition to assorted documents unrelated to the immediate issue but still potentially informative, it contained photographs of a number of Maine properties captured by drone cameras by both day and night, a review of a new art exhibition in Portland, catalog images of the same, and a picture and biography of the artist, a young woman with what Seeley regarded as too many tattoos—that is, any at all. Seeley examined the catalog images before reading the review and deciding that the latter was unduly harsh.