twelve
“HAS ANYONE EVER TOLD YOU how much you look like Prince Harry?”
Ryan had barely stepped into the Way Station Café. Lane had one hand on her hip and the other threw a towel she was holding over her left shoulder. “But like the bulkier, post-military-training one—with the muscles.”
“Aah. He looks like a Boy Scout to me,” a scratchy voice called out from the barstool at the counter.
“Hush, Ducky.” Lane pulled her towel down and playfully swatted at the old fisherman who frequented the café more than anyone else. “It’s good to see you, Ryan.”
“Hello, Mrs. Lynch.” Ryan hugged Lane. “It’s a good thing you’re back to keep your customers in check.” He flashed a pointed look at Ducky. “That one was especially disagreeable while you were away.”
Ducky’s weathered face pinched into a scowl. “Still don’t see what that young deputy has that I don’t.”
“Yeah, Lane.” Ryan put his hand on his gun belt and rocked back on his heels. “What does Charlie have that Ducky doesn’t?”
“Teeth,” she hissed with a smile.
Ryan’s mouth opened at the same time Ducky’s thin shoulders pulled back in a fit of laughter that had him hacking loudly.
“Hold on, Ducky.” Lane flashed Ryan a see-what-you-made-me-do look before slipping around the counter and grabbing a cup. “I’ll get you a cup of lemonade on the house.”
When it came to Ducky and several other special customers, everything was on the house. Lane gave back to the community in a huge way by feeding not only empty stomachs but also empty souls. Charlie was extremely lucky.
“Don’t you have a job?” The snarky question came from his sister. She rounded the corner, tying her apron around her waist. “This isn’t a donut shop, you know.”
“Donuts?”
“Yeah, doesn’t your kind, like, hang out at donut shops or something?”
Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Why would I go to a donut shop when I can annoy you here?”
“Har. Har.” Frankie gave him a fake smile to go with her fake laugh. “You’re so funny you’re killing me—literally killing me.”
He could’ve schooled her on her improper use of the word literally, but he was actually more concerned about why she wasn’t in school. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”
“Half day, and I’m working a double tonight for Bethany.”
“On a school night?”
“Relax, Deputy. Mom already said I could, and besides, Bethany has a hot date. Hot dates are priority.” She wiped the counters. “Speaking of Mom, why are you acting like a teenage girl and ignoring her calls?”
“I’m not ignoring her calls—”
“I hope you’re not ignoring calls, Deputy.” A smooth, feminine voice drifted over his shoulder. “That’s not becoming of an officer or a gentleman.”
Ryan smiled. “Hi, Holly.” He greeted the blonde beauty with a side hug. “Are you playing hooky from school?”
“No.” She batted her eyelashes up at him and Ryan caught Frankie rolling her eyes. “I’m picking up food for our teacher luncheon.”
“Ms. Byrdie will have your order right out,” Frankie said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my brother and I were having a conversation. I think they teach something about interrupting in kindergarten, don’t they?”
Ryan gasped, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Frankie.” He looked at Holly, who was smiling. “I’m sorry, my sister was dropped on her head as a child.”
Holly laughed, pressing into Ryan’s side in a way that was both uncomfortable and improper of the Southern belle, who’d had no idea he’d existed in middle school or high school. “I think she’s cute.”
Frankie’s eyes bulged and Ryan was relieved when Ms. Byrdie came around the corner with the elementary school’s order. He did not feel like arresting his sister for assault.
“Have a nice day, Holly,” Ryan said, as Holly followed Ms. Byrdie to the register. He turned his focus on his sister. “You didn’t have to be so rude.”
“Didn’t you hear her? I was being cute.” Frankie cast an unfriendly glance in Holly’s direction. “Besides, you think I’m going to be nice to some girl who suddenly becomes interested in my brother because he’s gone all Five-O?”
Ryan smirked. “You think I look like Steve McGarrett?”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Can we get back to why you’re avoiding having dinner with mom?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So you said.” Frankie leaned her elbows on the counter and stared at him until he couldn’t help but stare back. “Did you really think Mom was going to spend the rest of her life single? I’m going to college, you’ve moved out and are living your life. Doesn’t she deserve to live hers?”
“I never said she couldn’t.” Ryan moved the salt and pepper shakers around. “I just don’t know why y’all didn’t say anything about Dr. Murray.”
“Dr. Murphy, and because Mom didn’t want to say anything until she knew for sure he was the guy.”
Ryan swallowed. “She thinks he’s the guy?”
Frankie nodded. “She does, and I agree. He’s a good guy, and you would know that if you actually talked to him.”
“Here’s your lunch. Two turkey clubs, extra bacon, hold the onions.” Lane handed him a paper bag. “And two blondies.”
“Two?” Frankie’s eyes grew round. “Now who’s holding stuff back?”
“Stay out of trouble, Frankie.” Ryan slid his money across the counter and turned for the door.
“Call Mom, Ryan,” she said. “Or I’ll tell her you’re hiding a girlfriend.”
Part of him wanted to turn around and convince Frankie he did not have a girlfriend, but the larger part of him knew doing so would only fuel her. And she had this weasely way of twisting his words until she got exactly what she wanted from him. Maybe he should convince her to get a job in law enforcement as an interrogator.
Ryan headed out the door and crossed the street, where he caught a glimpse of Vivian waiting for him on a park bench near two huge Magnolia trees.
“Lunch is served.” Ryan held up the bag. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“Nope.” She smiled, clearly unaware of what that simple gesture did to his pulse. “I brought Harold’s calendar. Do you want to eat or work first?”
“Wanna do both?”
Her smile grew. “I was hoping you’d say that.” She took the bag from his hand and spread it out between them, then her expression shifted. “Uh, I think someone wants your attention.”
Ryan looked over his shoulder to find Holly waving at him. He waved back. “That’s Holly. She teaches kindergarten at Walton Elementary.”
“I think I remember her.” Vivian’s tone was low. “She’s pretty.”
He gave a quick glance behind him and shrugged. “I guess. Nothing special about her though.”
Vivian’s cheek lifted subtly and the beginning of a smile played at her lips. Was she jealous of Holly? She had no reason to be. Girls like Holly were a dime a dozen here in the South and brought nothing exciting to life—unlike Vivian.
Ryan sat. “Would you mind if I said grace over our meal?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Her expression was uncertain. “You’re not going to ask me to say anything, right?”
“No.” He smiled. Then he took her hand in his, giving it a squeeze before closing his eyes and saying a quick word of thanks for their meal and asking for protection and guidance to find the answers they needed. When he was done, Vivian withdrew her hand and gave a bashful smile. “See, not so painful.”
Between bites, Ryan caught Vivian up. “I think the best way to approach this is with a timeline charting Harold’s moments leading up to Friday night.” He paused, taking in the soft features of Vivian’s face. “Is this going to bother you? Talking about Harold’s death?”
Vivian shook her head but let her gaze fall to her pink toenails. “It’s not personal—it’s a story.”
The platitude sounded rehearsed and unconvincing, and her body language the last couple of weeks reflected the exact opposite of it being just a story. “Okay, but if you need a break or anything—”
“I’m fine, Ryan.” Her fingers grazed his as their eyes met. “Really.”
He straightened, turning his attention back to business. “Working backward, we can assume that by the time Harold called you, the oil was already in his system.”
“Right.” Vivian swiped at a crumb on her face. “His voice was scratchy and he was coughing. He thought it was smoke or something from the game.”
“I spoke with Daphne Ross, the arena’s facility manager, and she confirmed their food services do not use peanut oil because of allergies.”
Vivian finished chewing a bite, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Was the oil put on his car before or after the basketball game?”
“After.” Ryan finished the last of his sandwich. “The ME talked with a couple of physicians, and based on how severe Harold’s allergy was, if he had come in contact with it earlier . . .”
“He would’ve died earlier,” Vivian said. “Okay, so it’s safe to assume someone poisoned Harold at the basketball game. What’s next?”
It was disconcerting to hear the detached tone in her voice. Was that how she handled the hard news she reported? Charlie had mentioned soldiers doing that when they were at war, but pushing down the emotional impact of what they witnessed always found a way to the surface. It didn’t usually end well. He’d keep an eye on Vivian, and if he noticed any signs she was losing herself to the story, he’d pull her off the case.
“Hello? Ryan?” Vivian waved her hands in front of his face. “Did I lose you?”
“Sorry.” He redirected his thoughts back to the present. “Ms. Ross mentioned video cameras over the parking lots, but the video from that night has already been erased.”
“Darn.”
“I do have”—Ryan pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket—“a list of all the addresses from Harold’s GPS for that week.”
Vivian picked up the calendar. “Let’s start cross-checking them.”
She reached for them, but Ryan moved the paper. “Just a minute, Ace. This is a sharing program, remember? I gave you my info, now you give me yours.”
“Fine.” She adjusted the strap of her top and Ryan noticed a dozen freckles sprinkled over her shoulder. She pointed at a line on the calendar in her lap. “This is the address for the Daily in Savannah. Harold went there once or twice a week. This one here”—she pointed to another—“and here are related to a story he did on the school board adjusting the calendar for next year.” She tapped her finger on the page, studying the rest. “There’s only one that seems out of place. Here.”
Vivian lifted the calendar and showed it to him. The street name was the only thing familiar to him. “That’s a residential neighborhood not too far from Anderson.”
“It’s not Lauren’s address—she lived in Savannah.” She slid a sideways glance up at him. “Don’t give me that look. I checked her place before we made our deal. What’s interesting is that, according to his GPS, Harold was at this address when he was supposed to be meeting Lauren on Monday. He went there again on Friday, a few hours before he died.”
Ryan leaned in, taking in her findings, and immediately picked up on the soft floral scent of her skin. He moved back.
“What do you think?” She looked up at him. “Is this important enough to check out?”
He wasn’t sure, but he was certain that he wasn’t ready for her to leave. And the scary part was, he knew it was coming. Not just this afternoon when they were done working on the case or when the case was finished, but on that day when Vivian packed up and left Walton for good . . . potentially taking his heart with her.
“Ryan?”
He stood quickly. “You up for a field trip?”
Vivian fiddled with the strap of her purse. She was sitting in the passenger side of Ryan’s squad car, trying not to sneak peeks at him. Her eyes hadn’t deceived her. Moments ago, she’d caught him looking at her in the way every girl understood, a way that spoke of feelings. And instead of scaring her—like it should have—it delighted her.
Of course, there was Holly—the perfectly pretty Southern belle whose feelings for Ryan were visible all the way across the street, as was her atrociously blinding floral Lilly Pulitzer dress. The kindergarten teacher might’ve been smiling like a composed debutant, but Vivian recognized the stiffness in her posture. The flames of her feelings for Ryan were unmistakable, as was the warning look she gave Vivian.
Did Holly have anything to worry about? Did Vivian?
“That’s it.”
“What?” Vivian looked to where Ryan was pointing. “Oh, yeah.” The house on 803 Shoreline was impressive. It was a modern two-story home with bold black trim that contrasted nicely with the white siding and lavish landscaping that spoke of a yard service. A Cadillac Escalade was parked in the driveway next to an open house sign. “It’s for sale.”
“Dead end?”
“Not at all. Park.” Vivian pointed to a spot in front of another house. “We’re going in.”
When Ryan parked, she opened the door. “We know Harold came to this house twice the week he died. What better opportunity to snoop than when the owners aren’t even inside? Legally, anyway,” she added with a wink. “Hurry, it ends in five minutes.”
She was halfway up the walkway when Ryan caught up to her. He leaned in close. “We can’t just snoop in someone’s house.”
“What are you talking about?” She rang the doorbell and knocked. “That’s the point of open houses.”
Vivian could see he was about to argue, but a woman wearing an insane amount of makeup opened the door.
“Hey, y’all! Are you here for the open house?”
“We sure are. Is it too late?” Vivian pleaded at the woman with her eyes. “I had to drag my fiancé away from work—ya know, protecting the innocent and all that.” Vivian threaded her arm through Ryan’s and leaned into his side, which was a bit difficult with the bulky vest and gun belt. “We promise not to take long.”
“Sure, honey.” She let them in. “I’ve never been able to resist a man in uniform. Take your time. And if you need anything, just holler. My name’s Ramona.”
“Thanks, Ramona.” Vivian pulled Ryan into the front room. “Look, honey, it’s got the crown molding you like.”
“The what?” Ryan hissed in her ear.
Vivian cast a glance over her shoulder and saw Ramona lingering. “Just keep looking around like you want to buy this house,” she said through gritted teeth. “What’s the square footage?”
“Just over three thousand.”
“That’s a good size.” Vivian took in the large family room that opened up to an expansive chef’s kitchen. The furniture, art, plants, even the cake stand holding freshly baked cookies made the home feel comfortable, inviting, and staged. There was nothing personal to indicate who was living here, and Vivian was certain Harold wasn’t in the market for a new home.
“Can we check out the bedrooms?”
“Sure. There are three upstairs, including the master, and one downstairs.”
“Let’s go, honey.” Liking this ruse very, very much, she laced her fingers through his and escorted him upstairs. “In case we want kids.”
Ryan’s eyes bulged, and Vivian stifled a laugh as she stepped into the first bedroom.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m digging.” Reluctantly, she let go of his hand.
“Here?” He looked around the room. It too was staged. Bed, dresser, mirror, vase of flowers. “For what?”
“For who lives here.” She went into the next room and found it just like the first. So, no kids. Vivian peeked downstairs to make sure Ramona wasn’t eavesdropping. But just in case she was . . . “Honey, I think this would make a perfect nursery, don’t you?”
Her words echoed, and she shot Ryan a look.
“Uh, yeah, sweetie pie.”
Vivian scrunched her nose and mouthed “sweetie pie?” He made a face and shrugged. Shaking her head, she waved him into the master bedroom.
“My entire apartment in DC could fit in this room.”
“It’s a bit much.” Ryan stood in the room, his arms crossed over his chest. “I prefer something more cozy.”
“Cozy means small in real estate lingo.”
“Small is easier to clean.”
“Good point.” Vivian peeked into the closet, which was actually the size of her bedroom. Rows of shirts, dresses, and slacks hung neatly on both sides. At the end were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with every designer shoe Vivian once drooled over. “Wow.”
“Is this a closet or a clothing store?”
“Whoever lives here has very expensive taste.” Vivian lifted up the sleeve of a hoodie. “Do you know how much this Victoria Rose sweatshirt costs?”
“Do I want to know?”
She shook her head, eyeing the rose-gold sequins that lined the seam. “No. Definitely not.”
“I don’t see anything in this room except evidence these people have more money than they know what to do with.”
Vivian reached for the closet light when her eye caught on something that stopped her. She moved quickly to the built-in dresser and picked up the framed photo of a man and woman standing on a beach. Vivian moved the picture closer. There was something familiar about the man—had she seen him in Walton before?
“Ryan,” she whispered loudly. “Come here.”
“I have to say my fiancée is a bit bossy.”
She quirked her head to the side before thrusting the frame at him. “Do you know them?”
He took the picture and looked at it. “The guy looks familiar . . . and maybe I’ve seen the wife around town?”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Yoo-hoo,” Ramona’s voice called up the stairs. “I’m sorry to rush you, but I do have to get back to the office.”
Vivian replaced the photo and shut off the light. “We’re coming.”
Ryan’s footsteps followed behind her.
“If y’all are interested, you could come by the office and talk numbers,” Ramona said, her expression hopeful.
“It’s such a beautiful home. I can’t imagine why the owners want to sell. Are they downsizing?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any information on the sellers, but”—she leaned forward—“I will tell you they are motivated.”
“Motivated?” Ryan walked to the banister and gave it a shake. “Is something wrong with the house?”
Ramona moved swiftly to Ryan’s side, taking his hand off the banister. “Not at all, Officer.”
“There must be something wrong if the sellers want to dump the place.” He stepped out of Ramona’s line of sight and wiggled his eyebrows at Vivian. “Maybe we should keep looking, sugar pie.”
“Okay, okay”—Ramona pressed her palms on Ryan’s bulletproof vest—“what if I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with the house?” Ryan looked down at Ramona’s hands and then lifted his brows at her. She giggled and dropped her hands. “Sorry,” she said, looking at Vivian.
Oh. Fiancé, right. Vivian moved to Ryan’s side. “We’re listening.”
“I can promise you that Daniel and Trisha Atkins have taken very good care of this home.”
Atkins? That name sounded familiar. Vivian looked down. Where did she know—“Congressman Daniel Atkins lives in this house?”
“Yes,” Ramona said, looking around in case someone overheard. “But I can assure you they’re being very reasonable about the price, considering.”
“You’ve given us a lot to think about.” Vivian urged Ryan toward the door. “We’ll get back to you.”
“My card,” Ramona called after them.
Vivian kept moving toward the squad car, a dozen thoughts tumbling through her head. Harold was here to talk with Congressman Atkins a few hours before he met with Lauren. There was a photo of Lauren at Atkins’s campaign. Vivian was trying to make sense of it all when a horn blast snapped her attention back.
“Whoa there.” Ryan pulled her away from the curb. “Good thing they were paying attention.”
“Sorry.” Vivian gave an apologetic wave to the woman driving the Lexus. Her gaze followed the redheaded driver as she steered her car into a driveway one house over. She probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought, except under the current circumstances, Vivian’s Spidey senses were on high alert. “Go, hurry. Get in the car.”
“What?” Ryan asked, following her quick pace. “What’s going on?”
Vivian pulled on her sunglasses and slipped into the car as soon as Ryan unlocked the door. When he got in, she told him to drive.
“Tell me what’s happening, Vivian.”
“That lady in the car, the one who almost hit me, that’s Trisha Atkins, the congressman’s wife.”
Ryan looked in his rearview mirror. “So?”
“So, Lauren Holt worked Atkins’s campaign with her students. Harold’s GPS puts him at the Atkins home twice that week. The last time only a couple of hours after he met with Lauren.” Ryan looked like he was trying to follow along, but even she could hear the disconnect in her thoughts. “Look, I don’t know how it all fits together, but something brought Harold, Congressman Atkins, and Lauren together.”
“What about the video? Do you think Congressman Atkins is the Watcher?”
Vivian settled into her seat. “Maybe?”
“You think it was Lauren?”
“Taping herself? No.” Vivian shook her head. “She was upset about something.”
“So what do you want to do next?” Her eyes met his and he smirked. “Find Lauren Holt.”
“The quicker, the better.”