CHAPTER TWELVE

Monday morning, just before lunch, Bea found herself pulling up in the main parking lot at the lake. It was a truly spectacular day. The sky was an endless dome of candy blue with not one cloud marring its perfection. The sun sparkled on the surface of the lake like a galaxy of tiny suns, and the trees that surrounded the lake on every shoreline were thick with new growth.

She grabbed the brown paper bag off the passenger seat and exited the car. The sun was warm on her face now despite the cool start to the day, and she shrugged out of her fleece. It was so quiet—not a soul to be seen—although there was another vehicle in the lot. Bea inhaled deeply, appreciating the pine needles scenting the air with their woodsy fragrance.

No wonder Winona wanted to live out here.

Bea had passed what she assumed was Winona’s place a few minutes ago, if the bare A-framed bones of a house and the caravan to the side of the lot were any indication. She planned on dropping in and seeing her as per her invitation on Saturday on the way back, but for now she wanted to explore what the lake had to offer. Find a nice spot to really appreciate Annie’s Monday morning offerings of peach cobbler and raspberry pie.

Leaving the parking lot, she followed the sign on the tree-lined path that said pier and playground and headed in that direction. Her boots—ankle height in brown leather this time—crunching on the loose gravel echoed in the loud hush of nature. By the time Bea had walked a minute, she swore she could actually hear the low beat of her heart.

She’d never done this in LA—gotten out in nature. Hell, she hadn’t even gone to the beach much. There’d always been an excuse to keep her at her desk both at the office or at home and, with her trusty elliptical, she hadn’t needed to go out to get exercise. But Bea wasn’t doing this for the exercise. She was doing this for the sheer joy of doing nothing.

Which probably wouldn’t make sense to a lot of people, but it did to her.

As she rounded a bend in the path, the trees fell away and the view opened up to the playground and a large, well-kept picnic area. There were several permanent table-and-chair sets scattered around and plenty of trees left standing to provide shade to those who hadn’t been lucky enough to score a bench or who preferred to picnic on the ground. The grassy area gave way to a narrow, pebbly shoreline that curved off into the distance, the lake lapping it faithfully all the way around.

To the left a little, wooden jetty reached out into the lake, about thirty feet long and low across the surface. No handrail. On the end where the boards widened into some kind of large platform, no doubt used by kids and adults alike to launch themselves into the lake, sat a blond woman in a chair. She was facing the lake and appeared to be sitting in front of a…canvas?

Was this who belonged to the other car in the lot?

Curiosity piqued, Bea made her way across the picnic area and onto the beach, pleased for her sunglasses as the glittering water became more intense the closer she drew. There was only a couple of feet of gritty sand before it blended into pebbles and her boots scuffed and crunched. The sound must have carried in the stillness, causing the woman on the pier to turn.

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, just waved and turned back to her canvas.

Bea ambled to the wooden steps that led to the pier. There were only two and she mounted them unhurriedly, taking in the vista as the man-made lake opened up in front of her, revealing the vastness of the distant shoreline. It was strange not to see mountains nearby, but the woodland that ringed the lake was easy on the eye as well.

The thud of Bea’s boots against the boards echoed around the cauldron of the lake, and the woman turned again as Bea drew closer.

“Hi,” she said with a smile.

“Hey,” Bea returned, her gaze falling on the canvas that seemed a melting pot of color right now more than anything discernible.

It was an achingly familiar sight. One that both resonated deeply and evoked anxiety at the same time. So many memories Bea had purged from her brain over the years as effectively as her grandmother had purged her mother’s studio and the house of her art the day after the funeral.

Except they were still there. Not purged, just…buried. Waiting to be unearthed.

The other woman stood, her ponytail swishing. “I’m Suzanne,” she said but pronounced it Su-sahn.

Bea dragged her attention from the canvas. “I’m…” She stalled for a moment before deciding to just cut to the chase. “I’m the cat woman everyone’s talking about.” She held out her hand. “But you can call me Bea.”

Suzanne laughed as she shook, her fingers stained with paint. “So you’re the famous…infamous”—her brow crinkled like she was trying to decide which one best suited—“cat woman.”

Bea winced. “God, does everybody know about me?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded cheerfully. “I would think so. I live at a ranch out of town and don’t hear a lot of gossip, but I heard about you. Do you really have a dozen cats who are your minions of evil?”

It was Bea’s turn to laugh. “Would you believe I have no cats?”

“I would, actually.” Suzanne shook her head. “The good people of Credence do love a mystery and to gossip, and from what I hear, you’ve kept them guessing. If they can’t find out the facts, they’ll fill it with fiction until otherwise directed.”

Bea had figured as much. Her eyes drawn back to the canvas, she asked, “You’re an artist?”

“Yes.”

The admission slipped so easily from Suzanne’s lips, and Bea envied her that. “Would I have heard of you?”

“Ha! Goodness no. I mostly do reproduction work for private clients and art galleries for insurance purposes.”

“That sounds…”

“Dull?”

“What? No…” Alarmed, Bea hastened to assure her. “I was going to say important.”

“It is, I guess, but lately I’ve been doing my own stuff. Portraits mainly. I’m working on one for the mayor at the moment. Grady, my husband, said good luck trying to make him not look like a pompous windbag.” She smiled and Bea smiled back. “Occasionally, I get inspired by a landscape or two.”

Bea looked around at the dazzling display of nature. “Not hard to be inspired by this.”

“No.” Suzanne sighed. “It’s not. This your first time out here?”

“Yep. I just came to check it out. Get back to nature for a while.” She lifted the packet up. “Eat some pie with a view.”

Suzanne laughed. “I see you’ve discovered the delights of Annie’s already.”

“Hell, yes, I’m only sorry it took me two weeks. Although my waistline is not.”

“Yeah, diabetes never tasted so good, right?”

Bea grinned. She couldn’t have put it better herself. “Well…” She took one last look at the painting waiting to emerge from the canvas. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

“Don’t be silly.” Suzanne waved her hand dismissively through the air. “Stay. This pier’s big enough for the two of us as long as you don’t mind me working while I talk.”

“Umm…” Bea was torn between wanting to stay and watch Suzanne do her thing and the familiar urge to quash the desire. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I can’t offer you a seat, but the boards are quite comfortable.”

Bea sat down cross-legged, the warmth of the wood heating right through the denim of her blue jeans to her backside, and she shut her eyes and sighed at the bliss of it for a moment. Suzanne resumed her chair. Between them was a voluminous wicker basket stained with splashes of paint and stuffed full of supplies. Bea opened the brown paper bag.

“Which one would you like?” she asked Suzanne. “I have peach cobbler and raspberry pie.”

Suzanne’s eyes went a little rounded at the offering. “Oh my.” She laughed. “I like your style, but I just finished a snack.” Then she picked up her brush and resumed painting.

Neither of them said anything until after Bea, who was studiously not watching Suzanne paint, had finished the cobbler. “I can’t get over this sky,” Bea said. “You can actually see it. Like, all of it. All day. Even early in the morning.”

It was usually midmorning in LA before the smog cleared enough to even tell what kind of a day was ahead.

“I know what you mean. I came from New York, and you could barely see the sky for buildings. The night sky is the best, though. I didn’t realize how many stars I wasn’t seeing till I moved here.”

“New York, huh?” Suzanne’s accent was far more subtle than Molly’s and Marley’s.

“Yep. Came for Christmas, stayed for love.”

They wiled away half an hour chatting about life while the sun moved overhead and the water sloshed around the pier footings and the lake dazzled like sequins.

“So you don’t know what you’re going to do yet, but you don’t want to keep doing what you’ve been doing?” Suzanne clarified.

“Pretty much.”

“Like, what’s an example? What wouldn’t you have done in LA that you’ve done here?”

Lordy…so much. Where did she start? The burnout, the red hair, developing an obsession for Dean Winchester. Missing even one of her daily despised workouts with the elliptical. Made bras optional rather than mandatory. Flirted with a guy ten years younger who curled her toes with one look.

“Plenty.” Bea laughed. It was impossible to choose just one.

“Okay then. What’s your most recent transgression?”

Well, that was easy. “I had cheese fondue for breakfast.”

Suzanne looked at her, startled, then she laughed. “Wow. That’s a lot of cheese for breakfast. I salute you.”

Bea smiled, very pleased with herself. “I’m not sure my doctor will be so forgiving during my annual triglyceride check, but thanks.”

“Some foods are worth taking statins for.”

Truth. Also, such a first-world problem. They lapsed into silence again and Bea, who had been ignoring the canvas until now, could ignore it no longer. Suzanne had taken the blobs of paint and brushed them across the canvas, shaping them into details—water, trees, sky. It was effortless and utterly mesmerizing.

She used to love watching her mother paint, almost as absorbed as her in the strokes and the colors and the ethereal way she smiled when she was creating a work. Bea might have been young, but she understood in a way beyond her years that art was her mom’s happy place. She’d spent a lot of time wishing that she could be that happy place instead, but also somehow aware that it wasn’t a conscious choice for her mother.

Maybe because, before she’d ruthlessly suppressed it, Bea had also felt that innate tug to create.

Not consciously aware of what she was doing until it was too late, Bea gestured to the basket between them. “Do you mind?” she asked, her pulse a low, slow beat through her head as she pointed to one of several sketch pads.

Suzanne’s brows rose. “You’re an artist, too?”

“Oh, no.” Bea blushed but, despite her denial, she remembered a time when she’d been good—not Suzanne good, not her mom good, but not bad. That had been a long time ago, though, back when her mother had been alive and her fledgling art hadn’t been…discouraged. “I’ve dabbled over the years,” she continued dismissively. “Sketching, really. Doodling. For work.”

“What’s your occupation?”

“Advertising. I did graphic design in college. Started in the art department as an intern.”

And she’d kept up with all the tech as she’d advanced through the company over the years, so she understood the processes and the kinds of things she was asking of the art department. It was that attention to detail that always made her campaigns stand out from the others.

But graphic design wasn’t art.

“Although…” A memory popped into her head. Something she hadn’t thought about in a long time. “I used to make hand-painted birthday cards with funny cartoonish characters. For my college friends and work colleagues.”

Not art, either.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah.” Bea laughed as she thought about some of those creations. “It was.”

“Well, be my guest,” Suzanne said with a smile. “There are a couple of new sketch pads in there, as well as pencils and pastels and charcoal and all kinds of things. Have a dig around.”

Bea’s hands shook at the possibility, her heartbeat picking up tempo. It had been a long time since she’d free-sketched anything, and she had no idea why she was even trying, but suddenly it felt like the most important thing in the world to do right now.

Grabbing what she needed, she opened a medium-size pad and flipped to the first pristine white page. She closed it again, suddenly intimidated beyond belief. But something urged her on, something steely and stronger and bigger than her—maybe bigger than the whole lake. The same something that had urged her that night to throw a dart at a map, and she took a deep breath, flipped it open again, and stared out over the water.

How she sketched anything with her hands trembling so hard, Bea had no idea. But once she’d started, she couldn’t stop, and there was nothing but the scratch of charcoal on paper and the soft swoosh of sable on canvas between her and Suzanne for an hour. The sun warmed them, birds turned lazy circles above them, an occasional fish jumped in the distance, but Bea wasn’t conscious of any of it.

When she was done, she stared at it disbelievingly. She’d brought the lake to life in black and white, and a strange swell of pride and accomplishment mixed with the almost driving need to do it again. But that compulsion didn’t fill her with joy and wonder. It filled her with foreboding. This was the slippery slope she heard her grandmother talking to her father about late one night when she’d been twelve and had asked if she could do art lessons after school.

Do you want her turning out like her mother?

Bea had recoiled at the prospect then, because although she’d loved her mom, living with her artistic temperament had been full of highs and lows. Often erratic and unsettled and sometimes scary. Like that time her mother had left her with someone she barely knew for two whole days so she could go off and paint the wildflower bloom on Carrizo Plain.

It had been fine, the woman had been kind and a good cook, but Bea had been frightened of her big dog and anxious her mom might forget her.

Bea hadn’t wanted to be that person at twelve. Someone who made her father beside himself with worry as to their whereabouts. She didn’t want to be that person now. And yet…this past hour, she’d felt that old connection with her mother stir again. The one she’d always felt whenever she’d watched her mom paint.

And that felt good.

“Damn,” Suzanne said, looking over as Bea put the charcoal back in the basket and stared down at what she’d produced. “You’re good.”

Bea blinked back tears that had sprung from nowhere. She shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Suzanne laughed, then leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I hate to break it to you, Bea, but I think you might just be an artist after all.”

Laughing nervously, because no…this was just doodling…not art—she was a scribbler, not an artist—Bea got to her feet. “Well, thanks for the company, but I’ve got get going.” She had a busy day of nothing planned.

As she was about to tear off the sheet, Suzanne reached out and stilled Bea’s hands. “Keep the sketch pad. Just in case the muse strikes again.”

Muse. That’s what her mother used to say—I’m waiting for the muse to strike—and the urge to toss the pad into the lake was almost overwhelming. But Bea…couldn’t. So she nodded, said, “Thanks,” then bade Suzanne goodbye before walking away on unsteady legs.

…

On Wednesday afternoon, Austin pushed open a gate and strode along the path that led to the neat pale-yellow clapboard bungalow on Walnut Street. The grass was immaculately cut, the edges ruthlessly manicured so there wasn’t a single blade of grass touching the bordering concrete edging. He walked up two steps to the porch and strode to the front door, which was a deep, glossy brown with a shiny brass knocker at nose height. The door was flanked by a half dozen potted plants of various sizes lined up against the outside wall of the house.

These had to be the reason he was here.

He’d been walking out the door to head home at the end of his shift when Arlo tasked him with this call. Something about a missing tiara and some plants being knocked over. It had all been very vague, but Arlo had wanted him to take care of it, so Austin had gritted his teeth and obliged.

Normally he’d have smiled and said, On it, boss, because policing in a small town was usually about petty things, and he liked that, but he hadn’t seen Beatrice since the weekend, and all he’d been able to think about was stopping by her place after work, and anything that delayed this plan was an irritation.

It was his fault for staying away. And not to be all cool and flippant and whatevs, baby, but because he didn’t want to come on too strong or appear too eager or desperate. She was finding her feet and making friends, which was a good thing. It was obvious she was still pretty pissed at what had happened to make her part ways with her old life, and he wanted to be a fun part of her new life, not some guy who was coming on all heavy from the get-go.

Yes, they’d flirted, and Austin was pretty sure what was happening between them was inevitable, if she felt this tug even half as much as he did. But he wanted Beatrice to want it, too, for it to be fun and natural and something she sought. Not something he pushed, not some agenda he was following.

Austin got the impression that she didn’t really take him seriously as a boyfriend or a potential partner because of his age, and he got that. Which was why he was happy—well…resigned, anyway—to kick back and let it unfold at its own pace, because he’d never felt like this about a woman in his life and he didn’t want to screw it up.

So he’d been playing it cool, but four days was enough. There’d be line dancing at Jack’s tonight—maybe she’d like to go with him?

But first, he had a tiara problem to solve.

Austin gave two brisk taps, and Old Mrs. Jennings promptly answered the door. She wore glasses with wire frames, and her white hair was pulled back in the same clasp she used to wear when she worked at the post office when he was a kid. “Hello there, Junior,” she said with a smile. “I’m so sorry to disturb you over this. It’s silly, really.”

“Not a bother, Mrs. Jennings.” Austin smiled reassuringly, despite how much he was coming to despise his old nickname. “You can always contact us if something is concerning you; that’s what we’re here for.”

Austin stepped back as she opened the door and said, “Come in, dear.”

He gave his boots a good wipe on the mat before he entered the living room, the polished floorboards gleaming in a shaft of afternoon sunlight coming from the open door. “Have a seat down there,” she said, indicating the couch to his left. “I’ll be just a jiffy.”

She scurried away then, and Austin assumed she’d left to fix him a plate of cookies or other home-baked goodies, and he couldn’t object without it causing some kind of offense. Because that’s the way things were done around here. If someone came knocking, you gave them the very best of Eastern Colorado hospitality, and he’d learned a long time ago that police work was secondary to Credence cordiality.

Even if it meant disrupting his plans to see Beatrice.

Austin sat while he waited, pulling out his notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket, ready to take down any details. The room was as clean and neat as the rest of the house, immaculately kept, and smelled like disinfectant and furniture polish. But it was all very modest. Nothing flashy or expensive. Not ostentatious. So where the hell a tiara came into this, he had no idea.

Mrs. Jennings didn’t look the tiara type. No one in Credence did.

“I feel terrible about doing this,” she said from somewhere in the kitchen, “but I just can’t do it anymore.”

Austin frowned. Couldn’t do what anymore?

“I promised Cecil I’d look after his Princess, but the pots were the last straw.”

“Cecil from next door?” Old Cecil Grainger had died a month ago.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Jennings confirmed. “I mean, the man was dying and fretting so much about what would happen to his Princess, I couldn’t say no.”

Princess? Was that something to do with the tiara?

“But since the tiara fiasco—”

Aha. They were finally cutting to the chase.

“Princess hasn’t been happy,” she continued from the other room, “and she knocked over all my potted plants this morning and it was just the last straw and I was at my wits’ end when I called the police, and then Arlo said you’d be around to take care of it.” She appeared again, her arms full of some kind of giant…creature. “And so here she is.”

Mrs. Jennings crossed straight to him and dumped the…cat? in Austin’s lap. The animal landed with a thud. Jesus, she weighed more than his father’s working dog, Rocky.

“There you go, Princess,” she said, barely disguising her glee. “You’ll be much happier with more space to run around.” She petted the animal perfunctorily on the head before wiping her hands on her apron, as if her work here was done.

“Space?” Austin said absently as he glanced down at what was possibly the ugliest cat he’d ever seen.

She was big rather than fat, a Maine coon, he guessed, and her fur, which was wild and thick in some areas and patchy in others, was a dirty kind of orange with streaks of cream. Hair sprouted from her enormous ears—wispy white tufts of it sticking out worse than any old man. She was missing an eye, the lid all wrinkled in its socket, and one tooth stuck out over the lower lip.

The cat squinted up at Austin—not a good look on a one-eyed cat—then glared like he was beneath her contempt and meowed like a fish wife. Princess, his ass. Whoever thought up that name had either a keen sense of irony or had been shit-faced.

“At your ranch,” Mrs. Jennings prompted.

Austin frowned. Say what, now? “The ranch?”

She smiled at Austin indulgently. “You’re a good boy for taking care of this for me.”

The cat meowed loudly again, as if she vehemently disagreed with Mrs. Jennings’s assessment, then gave Austin a stone-cold glare. He’d never seen a cat with resting bitch face, but he was pretty sure Princess had perfected it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jennings. Can we back it up a little? Chief Pike said this was about a missing tiara?”

“Goodness, no.” The older woman laughed. “I said she misses her tiara.”

“The cat has a tiara?”

More laughter. “Princess had this cushion with a tiara printed on it, but I had to wash it, because no way was I having that mangy old thing inside my house. But it fell apart in the wash, and things have not been good between us ever since, I’m afraid, and I can’t keep dealing with a passive-aggressive animal like this. I went over this twice with Arlo. I’m sure he understood.”

Yeah…Austin was also sure Arlo had understood perfectly. He was no doubt laughing his ass off back at the station right now.

“He thought you might be able to use a cat on the ranch? Like a barn cat, you know? For the rats.”

Princess, who, despite having a forest of hair growing from her ears, appeared to have perfect hearing, meowed most indignantly at that suggestion. Austin stared down at the ugly-ass cat that had the most robust ego he’d ever come across, sitting like a fucking queen on his lap. He wasn’t sure if it was the word “barn” or “rats” that had caused her reaction.

Whichever one it was, he was pretty sure Princess of the Tiara Cushion wasn’t going to accept such a lowly station in life.

“You don’t need a barn cat?” More indignant mewling from Princess as Mrs. Jennings tutted and worried her bottom lip. “I’ve asked all around the neighborhood with no luck. Poor Cecil, he’s probably rolling in his grave. I’d hate to have her”—Mrs. Jennings mouthed the next two words—“put down.”

Austin sighed as the old lady turned the screw. But then an idea hit him. “It’s okay, Mrs. Jennings. I know someone who’ll take Princess.”

A big smile beamed back at him. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” Beatrice was in the market for a cat, and one had literally fallen into his lap. And if that wasn’t a sign, then he didn’t know what was.

He’d just have to convince her she needed this ugly, one-eyed, marmalade cat whose ego was writing checks its body could definitely not cash, instead of the cute, fluffy, low-maintenance one she’d imagined.

“What do you say, Princess, want to meet a friend of mine?”

The cat’s tail twitched with interest even if her face was the picture of disdain, which was good enough for Austin. Because Mrs. Jennings was obviously not keeping her here one minute longer, and now he had a legitimate reason to visit Bea.

Win/win. Whether Princess thought so or not.