Page 24

There were several customers in the store, browsing.

I found Devon and told him to come up to my apartment before he left for the night.

Then I led Jon upstairs, Newt at our heels.

“This is home sweet home,”

I said, spreading my arms wide once we entered the apartment.

The building that housed the store had once been a warehouse.

My father had converted the space, keeping the wide-open feel of the building as much as he could in the apartment upstairs.

The bedrooms—two of them—were enclosed in their own space, as was the office, but the rest of the apartment was one big open area with the kitchen in the back corner.

The living room and the dining area—identified solely by furniture and some area rugs—were along the front wall, where several large windows provided a view of the bay over the treetops.

Dad had added French doors and a balcony off the front in order to take better advantage of that view.

Separating the kitchen from the rest of the living area was a huge granite-topped island with seating for three along one side.

The apartment had been the perfect-sized living space for a family of three, but it was a lot of space for one girl and a dog.

Yet despite its open airiness, it felt cozy to me, most likely because of all the memories it held.

It was the only home I’d ever known, and it had always felt good to come back to it after my parents and I had been on trips that sometimes kept us away for as long as a year.

I watched Jon’s face as he took it in, wondering what he thought of the decor.

It reflected the offbeat and quirky tastes of my parents—though not as outré as the store downstairs—as well as some of their adventures.

The furnishings, none of which matched, all had meaning.

“Most of the pieces in here came from places my parents traveled to,”

I told him.

“They were chosen for comfort and personal appeal, but also because each one is reminiscent of a place they’d been.”

I walked over and looked at the dining table, which was carved from walnut with a splotch of blue-tinted resin in the middle.

“This represents Loch Ness,”

I explained.

“If you look at Loch Ness from space, this is what you would see.

And the six chairs around the table are all hand-carved African high backs from Cameroon, each one unique.”

“Beautiful,” Jon said.

He set the box and the laptop he’d carried in from the car on the island.

Then he walked over and ran an appreciative hand over the back of one of the dining room chairs.

“The granite on that island came from South America,”

I told him.

“I forget which country.

And the barrel-stave stools are made from reclaimed whisky barrels from Scotland.”

“And these?”

Jon said, waving a hand in the general direction of the living room.

“Well, the sofa, which is one of my favorite places, is a Bali daybed made with a bamboo frame.

The cover on the cushioned part is hand-dyed Indonesian fabric.

My mother loved those red, purple, and orange tones.

I think the throw pillows are from Indonesia, as well.”

I turned and pointed at the lounge-style leather armchair across from the sofa.

“That piece is a bit more mundane.

It came from a club in New York City that was rumored to be haunted.

When you sit in it, you sometimes get a whiff of cigar smoke mixed with bourbon.

I suspect the smell is simply imbedded in the leather but who knows? And the chair next to it is the Adirondack chair that Marty had delivered to me.”

My throat tightened at the thought, and I bent down and brushed a bit of dog hair off the glass-topped coffee table to give myself a moment.

Then I segued into the next bit on my world tour of furniture by pointing to the table’s base.

“That scrolled wrought iron bottom is from France,”

I said, “but the glass top, with the compass etched into it, came from Denmark.

And this rug we’re standing on? It’s Australian sheepskin.

The one in the dining room is a hand-knotted Himalayan from Nepal.

In the room my parents used as an office, there’s a wool rug from Iran that sits beneath a partner’s desk made from rare cocobolo wood from Mexico.”

“Wow,”

Jon said, looking overwhelmed but intrigued.

“My place is furnished with pieces from Wally World.”

I laughed.

“I know it’s a bit over the top but then my parents were kind of eccentric.

And my father had enough money to buy or commission anything he or my mother wanted.

They didn’t flaunt their money in public and they were very philanthropic for causes they believed in.

But this apartment was their sanctuary.

They knew what they wanted and didn’t hesitate to go after it.”

Jon nodded and walked over to a table against the sidewall where there were several framed photos of my parents, taken over the years, some with me and two with just them alone.

He took a moment to scan them all and then picked up one featuring all three of us that had been taken about ten years ago.

“That was in Iceland when my parents were hunting for the Lagarfljót worm, a serpentine creature rumored to live in a freshwater, below-sea-level, glacial-fed lake.”

Jon shot me a look I couldn’t interpret.

“Think we might have one of those in Lake Michigan?” he said.

“No.”

Jon smiled and studied the picture some more.

“You look like your father,”

he said.

“And your mother .

.

.

what a beautiful woman.”

“Wow.

I’m not sure how to take that,” I said.

Jon set the picture down and looked over at me with a puzzled expression.

Then it hit him.

“Oh, hell.

I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t beautiful, too, just that you have your father’s eyes and coloring, and his curly hair.”

He was clearly horrified, his cheeks aflame.

I decided to let him off the hook.

“I was teasing you.

It’s okay.”

“I truly am sorry, Morgan,”

he said.

“That came out all wrong.”

Now it was my turn to be discomfited.

I turned away to hide my reddening face and spoke over my shoulder to him.

“You can make it up to me by fixing us dinner.

The kitchen is all yours.

Shall I give you a tour?”

To my surprise, he declined.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to just poke around and figure it out on my own.

I’ll look at what you have in the way of food items and figure something out.

I love doing that.”

“Have at it,”

I said, and then I went over to Newt’s food and water dishes, which were both empty, and took them into the small guest bathroom by the office entrance to clean them.

As I refilled and replaced Newt’s bowls, I watched Jon with a subtle side-eye as he rummaged about in the kitchen, gathering things on the countertop next to the stove.

I also felt the package of pictures that I still had tucked in the rear of my pants irritating me.

“Okay if I use these chicken breasts you have in the fridge?” he asked.

“Go for it.

Feel free to use anything I have out there.”

“I make a mean chicken parmigiana,”

he said.

“Hope you like Italian.”

“I’m not a picky eater and that sounds yummy.”

I disappeared into my bedroom and removed the packet of pictures.

After looking around the room for the best place to hide them, I settled on the drawer where I kept my pajamas and tucked the packet in between two folded sets.

Then, to explain why I’d disappeared into my bedroom, I changed my top.

It was stupid, really.

Jon had no reason to be suspicious of me and I felt certain I was going overboard in my attempts to cover up my crime, but I’d learned my lessons during that last, fateful trip to New Jersey with my parents.

Even the simplest, most ordinary act can prove fatal.

When I went back out to the main part of the apartment, Jon was busy at work in the kitchen, and I doubted he even knew I’d left the room.

“Mind if I look through the box of treasure-hunting stuff we took from Oliver’s storage unit while you cook?”

I asked him.

He frowned.

“I don’t suppose you have any gloves?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I walked over to an antique Russian cabinet positioned along one wall in the dining area, opened a drawer, and pulled out a box of nitrile gloves.

“I wear gloves a lot when looking at items that people send to me or bring me for the store.

Some of that stuff can be a bit dicey.”

“No doubt.”

Already, the aromas of butter and garlic filled the room, making my stomach rumble embarrassingly loud.

Newt raised his nose to the air, his nostrils flaring wildly.

I went to the fridge, took out a bottle of Chardonnay, and held it up to Jon.

“I suppose red would be better with what you’re cooking but this is all I have,”

I said.

“Unless you want to crack open a rare vintage bottle of red wine purported to have come from Al Capone’s stash in a house he owned in Milwaukee.

It’s rumored to be a century old.”

“I like an aged wine but that might be pushing it,”

Jon said, looking like a kid staring down a plate of vegetables.

“Besides, red wine tends to give me a headache.”

“Me, too.

Can I pour you a glass of the Chardonnay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and set his on the counter next to him.

Then I carried mine into the living room and settled myself and the treasure box on the Indonesian daybed, which was big enough to sprawl on and spread stuff out on.

When I had everything situated, I put on a pair of gloves and dug in.

There were several books in the box, all with variations on the title of the topmost one: Hidden Treasures You Can Find! A quick flip of the pages in each book revealed tales about lost treasures, including one intentionally planted by a millionaire who then provided obscure clues; the infamous D.

B.

Cooper case from the seventies; and historical legends like the Scepter of Dagobert, part of the French crown jewels that have supposedly been missing for more than 225 years.

I set the books aside and looked at the items beneath them, which included a handful of supposed treasure maps that I suspected were rip-offs Oliver had fallen for, and printouts of what I estimated to be well over a hundred emails and messages from various chat rooms and websites focused on treasure hunting.

Resigned to reading them all, I started wading through them, hoping to find a reference to something local.

I was only about a quarter of the way through the box when Jon announced that dinner was ready.

“Where should we eat?” he asked.

My parents and I had almost always eaten at the island.

I typically ate in the living room.

“How about the dining room table?”

I suggested, eager to avoid painful memories.

Plus, I thought it might help keep things on a more formal level.

Jon found the cabinet holding my dishes and he carried over two plates and set them on the table.

I got silverware and napkins while he put out the food he’d prepared: the chicken parm, a side of spaghetti and sauce, and a small salad with some sort of homemade lemony dressing.

As I served myself, delighting in the garlicky, cheesy aromas, Jon said, “I set aside a small amount of cooked chicken breast without any spices on it for Newt.

Is it okay if I give it to him?”

Newt’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name and he looked at me expectantly, as if he understood exactly what was in question here.

I’m not sure whose heart was more won over by Jon’s gesture, mine or my dog’s.

“Of course,”

I said.

“And thank you.”

Newt gobbled his share of the meal down in a matter of seconds.

I, on the other hand, intended to savor every bite of mine.

The food was delicious, and I complimented the cook accordingly after only a few tastes.

“Tell me how you ended up here after Colorado,” I said.

“I already did.

I saw there was an opening, I was ready for a change, and I applied.

They hired me.”

“Yeah, you told me that part but not why you were ready for a change.

For most people, a move that big follows some sort of life-altering event.”

He put a forkful of chicken in his mouth, chewed on it, and stared at me, making no attempt to answer.

I tried a different tack.

“Do you miss Colorado at all?”

That question he apparently deemed safe.

He swallowed and swiped at his mouth with his napkin while nodding.

“I do miss the mountains at times.

There is such a majestic beauty to them and a sense of something powerful .

.

. almost magical.”

I knew what he meant.

While I’d lived all my life in Door County, where the highest elevation is only about eight hundred feet, I’d been around and even on mountains both in the US and abroad.

Our sheer, rocky cliffs here are beautiful, but they can’t compare to the majestic beauty of mountain ranges.

“Of course, the Great Lakes have their own magical qualities,”

Jon added.

“And I quite like living on the water, even if that water is unforgivingly treacherous at times.”

He paused, gazing out over the room though I sensed that whatever he was seeing in his mind wasn’t anything in this building.

“When I’ve been out on the water and looked down at some of the shipwrecks out there in Death’s Door, it gives me a strange sense of history.

I feel—I don’t know—connected somehow to all those souls whose lives were lost on those ships.”

He paused, silent for a moment, and then he blinked hard and looked at me, almost as if surprised to find himself seated at my table.

He smiled, looked down at his plate, and started twirling some spaghetti on his fork.

“Does that make me sound strange and weird?”

“Not at all,”

I said.

“I get it.

I’ve felt the same thing.

Sometimes I think there are threads that connect all living things on the planet, maybe even in the universe.

And sometimes those threads affect our hearts and souls in ways we don’t fully understand.

It’s part of why I love being a cryptozoologist. I believe there are other creatures out there that we haven’t yet discovered because sometimes I can feel them. Here.”

I put my palm over my heart.

“It’s a sensation .

.

.

a thrum deep in my chest, and sometimes it feels like it’s tugging me toward something, though I don’t always know what.”

I paused and gave Jon a tentative smile.

“Does that make me sound strange and weird?”

Jon rolled his lips inward and shook his head woefully.

“You are certifiable, no doubt about it,”

he said, though I saw the twinkle in his eye and a crinkle at the corner of his mouth that told me he was teasing.

“I think we’re a good match.”

That last bit gave me pause and Jon must have seen something in my face because then he said, “Uh-oh, what did I say?”

“Nothing.”

It came out too quick and with a distinct lack of conviction that even I could hear.

Jon set his fork down, put his elbows on the table, and laced his fingers together, staring at me over the top of his hands.

“Morgan, I’m a single man with no romantic ties currently.

I haven’t been looking for any romantic connections, but I’m attracted to you, and I’d like to explore that at some point.

I’m in no rush, but if I’d be wasting my time to do so, tell me now.

I’m a big boy.

I can take it.”

I gave him a hesitant smile and then started playing with my spaghetti, swirling the pasta around on my plate.

“I like you, Chief Flanders,”

I said, enunciating his title in a teasing way.

“I’m attracted to you.

But you need to understand something.

Three somethings, really.

One is that I can get quite absorbed in my work, to the point that it sometimes becomes all-encompassing.

When that happens, I don’t have the time or energy for anything else.”

I paused, waiting to see if he would say anything, but he continued to look at me, his expression neutral, waiting.

“Two, I have trust issues because of my wealth and what happened in New Jersey.

I can’t tell you how many potential suitors have approached me solely because they were interested in my money.”

“I’m not interested in your money,”

Jon said.

Then he frowned.

“Though I imagine every suitor you’ve ever had has said the same thing, making my claim meaningless.

If it’s any consolation, I have a job that comes with a whole truckload of trust issues, so I think we might be on even ground there.

I suggest we play it by ear and see how things pan out.”

I had to give him credit.

His answers were spot-on perfect so far.

I found myself warming to him, but an inner voice cautioned me.

“What’s the third thing?”

Jon asked.

I looked back at my plate again and resumed my study of creative art with pasta.

“I think I may be .

.

. broken,”

I said.

I didn’t look at him, couldn’t bring myself to, but I paused to see if he would comment.

When he didn’t, I continued.

“My parents’ deaths .

.

. there’s more to the story than you probably realize. Things happened back then that . . . um, damaged something in me. It left me numb, unable to feel anything for a long time.”

I looked over at Newt and smiled.

“Until this guy came into my life.”

Newt got up and put his chin on my thigh, looking up at me with those big, soulful brown eyes.

I set my fork down and stroked the soft fur atop his head.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to open myself up that way to anyone yet.

Not sure I ever will be.”

To Jon’s credit, he didn’t respond right away.

I spared a quick glance at him at one point and saw that he looked thoughtful, contemplative.

I liked that he typically didn’t feel the need to fill a silence and jump right in with some pithy comment.

But then it went on for so long that it felt uncomfortable.

An interrogation technique, no doubt.

His uncle had used it on me when he questioned me after the murder of my parents. One more reason I had trust issues when it came to Jon Flanders, but one I didn’t feel obligated to share with him just yet.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

I said finally, unable to endure the silence any longer.

He was saved by the bell, or rather the knock that came on my apartment door.