Kate wheeled her bike up the steps onto the front porch of the Cookie House, wrapped the plastic-encased chain carefully around one of the side columns, and locked it.
As she did, an oatmeal-colored streak charged across the lawn, raced up the steps, and threw himself at her legs.
“There you are, Oliver,” Kate said, rubbing the puppy’s flanks and ruffling the top of his downy head.
“What is that?” Manny asked.
“This is Oliver. Believe it or not, he’s just a puppy. About half-grown now.”
“He’s gonna be a big one,” the P.I. said.
“Come on in, I’ll make you some coffee.”
Manny followed them into the kitchen. “Hey, this is nice. You running the place now?”
“For a friend. Just temporarily.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. The guy who owns it poisoned somebody.”
“He didn’t, actually. And he’s been accused, not convicted.”
“You a lawyer and a baker?”
“I’d offer you some cookies, but we’re fresh out at the moment,” she said as Manny settled on a barstool near the counter. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll be giving them away. Literally.”
“For real?” he asked as Oliver politely sniffed the detective’s knees, then his shoes, before curling up beneath the barstool.
“Tomorrow’s our grand reopening,” Kate explained. “It should be fun. And you don’t have to sneak around anymore. If you want to know something, just ask me.”
“OK, so how come you left Thorpe? The guy’s loaded. And from what I hear, he looks like some kinda movie star.”
“That you’ll have to ask him.”
“Blonde, brunette, or redhead?”
“Blonde. His real estate agent.”
“Sorry.”
“Hey, it’s OK. I’m happy here. And I hope he’s happy there. And that’s the way we’re going to keep it.”
“I don’t think he is happy. With her, I mean. You don’t hire a P.I. when you’re happy. We’re kinda like cops. People only call us when something is wrong. Really wrong. I get the feeling he looks at you as the one who got away.”
“I did. And I’m not going back. You like cream?”
“Only if you have it. A little sugar, too, if that’s OK. I know I’m supposed to drink it black, but the stuff they make today? Too strong. If you don’t water it down a little, it’s like battery acid.”
He reached down and gave the pup a scratch behind one ear. “Wow, his fur’s really soft.”
“Oliver’s a poodle mix. He actually has hair instead of fur.” Kate looked up and smiled. “He seems to like you.”
“He probably smells John Quincy.”
She put the tray down between them on the counter. Manny pulled out his phone, touched it a few times, and held it aloft. “Here.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“This is John Quincy. Officially, John Quincy Adams Stenkowski. My dog. I wasn’t lying.”
Kate squinted at the picture. Manny, kneeling on the grass in what looked like a park, with his arm around a bright-looking beagle.
“This is him asleep on the couch,” he said, flipping photos.
“He’s adorable,” Kate said. And he was. Cuddling what looked like a football.
“Used to be a cadaver dog. His original name was Quincy. After the TV coroner? A whole year of training. Found two bodies, right off the bat. Great nose. But when they took him out the third time, he wouldn’t get out of the truck. Just put his head on his paws and sighed. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t play with his toys. Didn’t even want to run with the other dogs. Trainer had never seen anything like it.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“He was depressed. Trainer knew my ex. Told her they were gonna take old Quince to the pound. Of course, that’s all she needed to hear. Margot’s a cop. Hard head, soft heart. She brought him home that night. Renamed him right off. John Quincy Adams, after the sixth president. She wanted to keep it sorta the same, so he wouldn’t be confused. Now he’s the happiest little guy you’ve ever seen. And his face lights up when I come through the door at night. Love that. Margot and I split. But we share John Quincy.”
Kate doused her coffee with milk and took a long, satisfied sip. Manny dumped in three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and followed that with enough milk to turn the coffee a light tan color. It matched his shorts.
“I need your help,” she started. “The man who died? His name was Stewart Lord.”
“You mean the guy your friend killed?”
Kate pulled back and glowered.
“OK, OK,” Manny said, putting his palms up in surrender.
“He was a real estate developer,” she continued. “And let’s just say he was ethically challenged.”
Manny smiled.
“He wanted to buy Coral Cay.”
“What part?”
“All of it, apparently,” Kate said as Manny’s eyebrows jumped. “The man had absolutely no problems in the ego department. But he seemed to be focusing on downtown, to start. The business district.”
Manny nodded.
Kate took a deep breath. “And it’s not as outlandish as it sounds. Lord’s specialty was buying up property that had suddenly bottomed out in value. He’d come in after natural disasters. Pay cash, but only the bare minimum. Or target owners with personal or financial troubles,” Kate added, remembering Sam and Harp.
“From what I’m hearing, Lord believed that the property values in downtown Coral Cay were going to take a nose dive in the not-too-distant future. And he was poised to take advantage of that. But you can’t create a hurricane. Much less predict it.”
“You think he had something planned,” Manny said.
“I do. And I’d like you to find out what.”
“Gee, you don’t ask for much.”
“Look, you don’t have to work for free. Keep billing Evan. You said he wanted to help me discreetly. You’d be doing exactly what he asked. So discreetly that even he doesn’t know about it.”
“OK, I’m pretty sure that’s not what he meant,” Manny said, shaking his head. “Besides, I’m supposed to be feeding him information on you.”
“I’ll give you information on me. Heck, I’ll even pose for some of those ‘candid’ telephoto shots,” she said, using air quotes. “But what I really need—what everybody in this town needs—is to find out exactly what Stewart Lord set in motion. And whether that plan is still chugging along without him.”