Page 15

15

Tallus

D iem paced the congested room, gnawing his fingernails to nubs and cracking his knuckles randomly as he snuck glances in my direction. For once, I didn’t think his distress had anything to do with frills, pink paint, potpourri, or ticking clocks.

Upon returning to the B&B after the incident with the dog in the woods, Diem deposited me in the bathroom and ordered me to take a long, hot shower. He’d refused to join me no matter how much I whined and begged, and I’d cranked neediness up to a solid level ten since the episode in the woods had left me feeling vulnerable.

Wrapped in a fluffier than fluffy, pinker than pink towel, sitting on the edge of the frillier than frilly bed with its rufflier than ruffly quilt, I watched Diem cross the room again. Back and forth. One side to the other. Twice, he kicked the blanket-wrapped mountain of clocks in the corner, telling it to shut the fuck up.

The room really was an attack on the senses.

Diem’s stress level had climbed into the danger zone. Anyone with eyes could see it. Something told me it had nothing to do with the strange man in the woods, his freak of a dog, or Atlas revealing that the Murder Club was a separate, more sinister entity than its tamer counterpart, the Whodunnits?

No, Diem’s tension was directly tied to my unexpected episode in the woods. Until an hour ago, I’d been the stable one in the relationship. I’d been the one talking Diem off a ledge, not the other way around. My anxiety attack—if that was what it was—had exposed Diem’s marshmallow insides. It had activated his own panic button. It had forced an emotion upon him that wasn’t anger or frustration, and Diem was not a fan of emotions.

Diem cared about me. A lot more than he realized if his reaction told me anything, and Diem wasn’t accustomed to vulnerability. He hated it.

So he paced.

And he processed.

And he paced some more.

And he processed some more.

Until I was dizzy and couldn’t take it another second. “D? You’re making me nauseous. Please stop and talk to me.” I patted the spot beside me on the bed. “Sit.”

He did not sit. Sitting would imply closeness, and Diem was in a headspace that required distance. He ceased pacing, however, and propped his hands on his hips. “Are you warmer?”

“Yes.”

“Calmer?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He scanned the room. “Do you have a change of clothes?”

“I… think so.”

I got up and found my bag, digging inside and finding the last clean outfit I’d brought—trendy jeans and a knitted V-neck. I displayed them. “My jacket’s too wet and muddy to wear.”

“I know. Get dressed.”

I did. Diem watched my every move, but the concern creasing his forehead told me the attention wasn’t from lust or a desire to see me naked. The man seemed to need confirmation I was still in one piece.

“I have a hoodie,” he said as I tugged the V-neck over my head and refitted my glasses in place. He located it in his bag and handed it over.

I held it up, smirking. The garment was easily three sizes too big for my frame, but since the bear in Diem’s chest had no plans to hibernate any time soon and I didn’t want to aggravate it, I put the hoodie on.

Diem huffed and shook his head with an expression that told me it looked ridiculous. “You could do to gain a few pounds.”

“I wouldn’t object to a cheeseburger.” I offered a coy smile. “And fries. Maybe a chocolate shake. Apple pie?”

Some of the tension in Diem’s shoulders released, but the worry in his brow remained.

“I’m okay, D. Not a single scratch. What now? Should we pack up and relocate to a motel?”

Diem took in the room before scrubbing a hand over his face. “No. I called Delaney while you were in the shower. She’s thrilled we believe her and want to stick around to check things out. She booked us in this godforsaken room for a few more nights.”

“But the clocks.”

“I know.”

“And the pink.”

“I know.”

“And the—”

“I know, Tallus. I fucking hate every inch of this place.”

“Why didn’t you speak up?”

“Because my head is scrambled right now. Words fail me on a good day, so when a man points a rifle at my fucking head, and his dog threatens to tear your fucking throat out, I wasn’t exactly on my fucking game.”

“Wow, that was a three-fuck sentence. Say no more. We’ll make the best of it. Let’s be sure we’re up before the seven a.m. air raid sirens go off, though. I’m not sure I can do that again.”

“You’ll have to call work.”

“Shit.”

“If you can’t stay—”

“No. I’ll figure it out. I can always blame the weather. Where do we go from here? Are we hunting down the teens? We should figure out where the twins live and—”

“I want to go to the police department and chat with whoever dealt with the Mandel case.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” Tipping my head to the side, I pinned Diem with a look of confusion. “I thought you said you wanted to go to the police department to chat with the officer who handled Weston’s case, but I must have heard you wrong.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But the police department?”

“Yes.”

“Willingly?”

“Yes.”

“To chat?”

“Yes, Tallus. Willingly. To chat.”

“Sweetie, are you fevered? Did you catch a cold in the woods today? We can go to the drugstore and get some cherry-flavored medicine. I can tuck you in bed, sing you lullabies, feed you soup.”

Diem glowered.

I chuckled. “Is that a no?”

The surly man’s lips twitched, and I silently scored myself another point.

“What do you want to ask the police?”

“If they’ve deemed the incident by the river an accident, there’s technically no case. No case means there’s nothing for them to hold back. I want exact details about where the kid was found and where they suspect he went into the water. I also want the name of the dog walker who found him.”

“Do you think it was that guy from the woods?”

“Makes sense. Same area. I don’t know, but we’ve got to figure out why Weston was out there and with whom.”

I stared at myself, evaluating how presentable I looked if we were going to the police station. Diem’s hoodie hung to mid-thigh, making me look like a child. “This thing is too big. I may as well wear my coat. I have to put those shoes back on anyhow.”

“Wear both. You’ll freeze otherwise.”

Diem’s vibe said he was not in an arguing mood, so I kept the hoodie on but spent a minute wiping the mud off my coat and shoes using one of Ivory’s frilly pink cloths from the bathroom. My soiling the delicate décor seemed to amuse Diem, dampening his surliness.

By the time we were back on the road, the midday sun was making a veiled attempt to warm the town, straining to penetrate the heavy cloud cover and succeeding at times. Most of the ice on the roads and sidewalks had melted, but the bare tree branches still wore their glassy coats of armor.

The police station was located a few blocks from the high school in an unremarkable building on the northwest side of town. A handful of cars occupied the lot, but it seemed quiet on a Tuesday at midday. I couldn’t imagine much happening in a dinky town like Port Hope. The Weston incident was probably the most excitement they’d seen in years, which made me curious why the authorities had so quickly dismissed Delaney’s concerns. I would have thought they’d have been all over it simply for something to do.

Diem sat in the running Jeep for a long time, staring at the beige brick building, grinding his molars, and wringing the life out of the steering wheel. He hated cops. He hated bowing to authority. Back home, Diem would never have lowered himself to this level. He would have used a contact to get the information he needed, but in a place where we didn’t know anyone, the option wasn’t available.

Without a word, he killed the engine, and I followed him inside, reminding him to talk nice and not get us arrested.

My dry socks were officially soaked, and they squished unpleasantly inside my shoes. I bit back a complaint, recognizing Diem’s limits when it came to bitchfests surrounding designer clothing. I risked a trip to Walmart at this rate, and I didn’t care how broke I was, there were some lines I wouldn’t cross. Yes, I was a diva, but I would wear my ruined Versace, mud and all, before submitting to anything subpar.

With about as much politeness as Diem possessed, he asked the male officer behind the counter if we could speak to the person or persons involved in the Mandel case. He flashed his PI credentials and explained that Delaney Mandel had hired us to look into a few things. All neat and tidy. All legitimate. Diem didn’t often play nice, so I was impressed.

The officer examined Diem’s ID for a long time before ushering us into a separate room, explaining he would need to radio the officer in question since he was on patrol. “Can I get you a coffee or something while you wait?” he asked.

“I would kill for a coffee right now.” Hearing my words, I held up my hands in defense. “Not that I would murder anyone. I like coffee, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not homicidal over it. I mean, I can be in the morning if I don’t get enough sleep, which is often, but for the most part, I have perfectly regular coffee urges. Although I had a rough morning. I was almost eaten by a dog. My coffee urges are teetering close to desperate, but I don’t think we’re quite in the homicidal zone. Not yet.” I cleared my throat. “Cream and sugar, please.”

The officer blinked a few times and slowly shifted his gaze to Diem. “And you?”

“I’m homicidal all the time. The only thing keeping me grounded is this one.” He thumbed at me. “And without coffee, he’s pretty much useless.”

More blinking. “Okay. One coffee, coming up.”

The man vanished down the hall, and Diem side-eyed me with a smirk. “He didn’t believe me, or he’d have locked the door.”

“Careful, cuddle bear. If you adopt a permanent sense of humor, I might fall head over heels in love.”

Diem’s smile melted. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the comment and found something interesting on the floor to look at instead.

Constable Ralph Hercules joined us twenty minutes later, wearing a beige uniform and a heavy, navy-blue department jacket, the shoulders dappled with rain. He cleared six feet but wasn’t nearly as built as my boyfriend.

His utility belt jangled as he marched into the room and slapped a brown file folder on the industrial table. We earned handshakes and analytical glares. The man lingered on the oversized hoodie I wore under my open coat, and I wanted to explain but decided it best I bite my tongue.

Depositing himself in the seat across from us, Constable Hercules folded his hands on the folder and sized up my brick wall boyfriend. “Diem Krause. Private investigator with Shadowy Solutions, based out of Toronto. Is that correct?”

Diem offered a clipped nod and a grunt.

When Hercules glanced at me, I sat straighter. “Investigator in training. Still completing the course. I have ten hours to go, but… it’s hard, and I hate school. This isn’t my sweater by the way. It’s his. I borrowed it since it’s freezing outside, my coat is wet, and I don’t have extra clothes. Plus, Diem’s in a mood today, and I’ve learned not to argue with him during times of stress. I’m usually way more fashion conscious, and—”

“Tallus.” Diem’s voice was a low rumble.

I shut up.

The stolid cop didn’t seem interested in my predicament and shifted his attention back to Diem. “Delaney Mandel hired you?”

Another nod from my incommunicado boyfriend.

More staring. I got the sense the two had entered some sort of authority pissing contest, but it was hard to tell. Cops—and ex-cops—tended toward perpetual stubbornness and had out-of-control egos. So as they silently compared the size of their dicks—or whatever they were doing—I sat patiently waiting, biting back the urge to offer commentary.

I didn’t know who won, but the tension broke, and Constable Hercules opened the folder.

“Weston Mandel.” He plucked a few pages from inside and spun them around, shoving them toward Diem. “Can’t say I have much to share. It was a straightforward investigation. All signs pointed toward an accident. No evidence of foul play. Can’t make a case when there isn’t one.”

Diem skimmed the papers, and I glanced over his shoulder. I was familiar with reports since I always dealt with them in the records room. The form was a common one police use to write up incidents. Hercules had given all the details about the scene where Weston had been discovered and the process taken to determine what he believed happened. The second page outlined where he figured Weston had entered the water. Considering they’d found Weston’s glasses and skid marks in the mucky embankment where his running shoes had failed to grip the side, it seemed obvious the place wasn’t in question.

Diem pointed to a sentence about the man who’d discovered the boy. “Who’s the dog walker?”

“Nicholas McConaughy.”

Diem held the officer’s glare, clearly wanting more information.

Hercules wasn’t forthcoming.

“What kind of dog does he own?” I asked.

“All kinds. His old man runs a kennel on the outskirts of town, and Nicholas has been slowly taking over the business. He runs and walks those dogs at least three or four times a day, usually in groups. Always along the trail. The morning he found the boy, Nick was out with Diago, a sixteen-year-old bloodhound. The old pooch is a great tracker but doesn’t like company in his old age, at least that’s what Nick tells me, so he walks him alone.”

“Where can I find this Nick guy?” Diem asked.

“The kennel is north, out past the trailer park on this side of the river.” Hercules nodded his head at the folder. “I took his statement. It’s all written down. Can’t see why you need to hassle him. Hard enough making a discovery like that, but having to relive it repeatedly…” The constable shook his head.

Diem asked about the man’s theory on the short story Delaney had found, but Hercules summed it up the same way Delaney had the previous day. “I strongly believe that Weston was out there doing research for his newspaper article. His English teacher confirmed Weston wrote the short story and that he wasn’t a strong fiction writer, so it was his opinion that Weston had simply written a mystery plot devised from a topic that was currently on his mind.”

“Doesn’t that seem a tad convenient and coincidental?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Not really. Like I said, I scoured the area. I can’t find proof of foul play, and a fictional story that sadly ends the same way doesn’t mean shit. Do you know how many lives that river has stolen over the years? Plenty, and most of them are stupid teens who think they’re invincible.”

But Weston wasn’t a stupid teen. Before I could say as much, the constable added, “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but you’re wasting your time. Mrs. Mandel is desperate for answers, but the answer is quite simple. She just won’t accept it. Occam’s razor.”

“Did you talk to Weston’s friends? His girlfriend?” Diem asked.

“I did a full investigation.”

“Of course you did.” Diem shoved his chair back and stood. “Thanks for nothing.”

He was out the door before I could get to my feet. “Don’t mind him. He’s having a bad day. So, um, out of curiosity, did you confirm if Weston and his girlfriend were at the library that morning?”

“I did a full investigation,” Hercules said more pointedly.

“Awesome. I better run, or he’ll leave without me.” I got to the door and pivoted, catching the constable reviewing his notes with a frown. “Any chance you chatted with the teens in the writing club?”

Hercules pinned me with a familiar expression of warning.

I held up my hands. “Not questioning your thoroughness. You, sir, did a full investigation. Have a great day.”

I aimed for what I thought was the front of the station but ended up turned around and in a hallway I didn’t recognize. With every intent on retracing my steps, I spun, but the soft buzz of voices from a nearby room caught my attention, stilling my feet. Rather, the words a third dead body perked my ears and drew me up short.

I had Weston on the brain, and since Diem and I were convinced something nefarious had happened to the teen, I couldn’t curb my curiosity. Had they come across more dead teens? Were we right? Regardless, murder and mystery had a way of getting under my skin and bringing me life. The itch to know more was insatiable, despite knowing that snooping at the police department was ten kinds of wrong.

I slinked toward the partially open door where the voices emanated and listened, squinting the best I could through the slim crack near the hinge.

“We’re going to need to call in the bigwigs,” one of the officers said.

The other concurred.

A male and a female constable leaned against the edge of a table similar to the one Diem and I had been at moments ago. Their focus was on a whiteboard, where images of several dead bodies in various stages of decay hung. They blocked my view, but I read what I could. Near one set of images was written: Female. Blonde. Mid- to late thirties. COD: Strangulation. The rest of the description was hidden from view thanks to the position of the officers.

Two more sets of images occupied the board, but neither were visible enough to take in.

My scalp prickled. I knew crime scene photos when I saw them, but usually, by the time they hit my desk, the cases were either solved or past their prime. Were these fresh? New? This was golden.

The eager, wannabe detective in me burned with the desire to enter the room and find out what was going on. Where was Woman, blonde, mid- to late thirties found? Was she local? Did she have a name? How long had she been dead? Who were the suspects? What was being done? A thousand more questions tickled my tongue.

I skimmed what I could see beyond the two officers blocking my view. Most of the notes were written in illegible handwriting, but two words had been circled in red marker. Missing fingernails.

I cringed. Eww.

One of the officers shifted, and I squinted at the illegible handwriting. Sculth… something Marsh. I’d never heard of it. That must have been where they found her. Sculth… Dammit. What did it say?

“Are you lost?”

I jumped and spun, coming face to face with Constable Hercules.

“I… Yes. Took a wrong turn.”

He stepped aside and motioned down the hall where I’d come. It was a silent demand that I move my ass. I didn’t argue and hustled, finding the front lobby and racing outside as fast as my feet could go.

Diem had one leg out of the Jeep when he spotted me. “Where the fuck were you?”

“I was… discombobulated. Probably lightheaded from a lack of food. Took a wrong turn, witnessed a brutal murder, and couldn’t unstick my feet from the floor. You know how I get with cases. Love me some real-life CSI stuff. My god, her fingernails. Eww. That must have hurt.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Cheeseburgers.”

Diem’s confusion pinched his features. He opened his mouth twice and closed it again, seemingly unsure how to respond.

“Look at the time.” I referenced my nonexistent watch. “It’s gotta be after two, Guns. Can we find food? I’m starving.”

Instead of asking me to clarify, Diem nodded and got into the Jeep. I followed but didn’t miss the frequent side-eyes as he took us to a fast-food burger joint nearby. I wanted to tell him what I’d seen but knew he would reprimand me for getting caught being a snoop, and the strangled woman with the missing fingernails was not another teen like Weston who had suffered an accident .