I didn’t hang around. One thing these rich old retired people are known for is being stickybeak busybodies. Despite the fact that most of them probably knew me by sight, they would still happily call the police and report an anonymous girl stalking the streets, probably looking to break into houses. I drove back to the office, pondering what I’d just witnessed. Clearly a drug deal. That wasn’t unusual. Most of Zero Bend’s stories involved drugs and alcohol. The fact that his agent was procuring them for him was about on par with what I knew about agents. I’d also discovered where Zero Bend lived. It must be a vacation rental; he was probably paying $5000 a week. All I had to do to get my interview was wait until Zero Bend was alone at his house. Then I could ask him some questions about Fusion Swan and Preston Jacobs.
I pulled up outside my office and quickly checked the photo on the small viewfinder. Zero Bend was outlined in yellow, glowing like the sun. Fusion Swan’s aura was more of a sick green with streaks of red through it. I closed the viewfinder and went inside to my office so I could upload the photo to my computer and take a closer look. The TV was off and John Smith was nowhere to be seen. While I waited for my very slow computer and very slow camera to do their work, I thought about whether I should tell Sheriff Hardy what I’d seen. I knew the address of the probable drug dealer, and I could also send the police to Zero Bend’s right now and they would find drugs. Would that reveal a murderer?
I wasn’t really sure it was a good idea for me to visit Zero Bend, even under the guise of getting an interview. Aunt Cass had warned me about anyone who tried to get me alone. My going to visit a possible murderer just seemed like the bait putting itself in the lion’s mouth. There was also the problem of Jack Bishop. I’d seen him meet with the redheaded weasel man just two days ago. Did that mean that Jack was on drugs? Was he a supplier? Could there be an innocent explanation for why someone would pay a drug dealer out on a public street and receive a package in return?
I realized I was searching for excuses. I’d been teasing Molly about the librarian and Luce about the landscaper, but the truth was I was a little jealous. As I’d said before, good men are hard to find in Harlot Bay. Most of the ones with any brains had taken those brains elsewhere. Who voluntarily decides to stay behind and live in a dying seaside town? I could see my own reflection in the computer screen. Exhibit number one right there.
My computer finally finished uploading the image, so I pushed aside my dark thoughts of accidental apartment fires and what they might mean, or people who returned to their small country towns and what that might mean, and focused on deciphering the auras. In a larger view, I could see that Fusion Swan’s aura had touched Zero Bend’s. Tendrils of green had stabbed into the gold. I shivered in my seat although the day was warm. It looked like one of those creepy nature documentaries where you see a spider eat a lizard. It’s nature and wonderful and circle of life and all that, but at the same time it’s creepy and gross and weird.
Did this mean that Fusion Swan was a soul sucker? Maybe that’s just what auras did when two people got close together. I’d have to take a photo of Molly and Luce standing side by side before I could make a judgment.
I decided to hit the Internet once more. No throbbing soundtrack this time, just a few cups of coffee and me clicking at high speed as I read all kinds of websites.
Preston Jacobs had asked me who benefited from Holt’s death. As Fusion had pointed out in the police station, the list of suspects were the competitors on the Butter Festival flyer. Any one of them would benefit from a top competitor being knocked out. Although after seeing Zero Bend’s sculpture, it seemed that they’d clearly killed the wrong man.
I dug into Fusion Swan and his business, the Swan Agency, and very quickly discovered that he represented many crazy people. He’s actually somewhat known for representing the crazed and drug affected. Some of his clients had even died in the past. I found a famous singer who died by drowning in his own pool after too much alcohol, a child actor on the rebound trail seeking to make good before he hung himself, and a few other artists and musicians who had all died in tragic ways. It was very clear by reading through all the sites that much of the material had come directly from the Swan Agency. There was just something about the way it was written—it so closely resembled the press releases that had been emailed to me by the agency.
You could almost see the pattern spread out over time. Always the same deal: the struggle, the fight, the breakup, going to rehab, the resurrection, the fall, the destruction, the tragic death, the memorial. It was almost as if it was stage-managed, with every step along the way twisted to maximize publicity.
Fusion Swan was rich. He clearly benefited from Holt’s death and was making out like crazy representing all that crazy.
I opened a new file up my computer and then sort of stared at nothing while I let all the information swirl around in my mind. There was definitely a story there. I didn’t know who the murderer was, but there was certainly a story about greed, drugs and the untimely deaths of celebrities. There was definitely a story about Fusion Swan also. Had no one noticed his clients dying and how he made much hay out of the fact? I mean, it wasn’t like he was killing them every month or anything like that, but there was a clear pattern. On the other hand, when you represent people who have problems, it’s probably not unusual that some of them die.
I left my blank document and went back to the Internet to look up Preston Jacobs. His was a much lighter story. A North Carolina boy who had grown up on the seaside. His parents had moved around when he was a kid. He’d lived in Harlot Bay back when he was a teenager. Instead of going to college, he’d used money he’d won in a surfing competition to start a sandcastle-building-product company. He’d started with shaped buckets that made castles. It seemed like one of those dumb ideas that clearly hadn’t been. He’d started manufacturing sandcastle buckets and equipment, and it had taken off like crazy. Everywhere there was a beach, there was a Preston Jacobs bucket. At some point, he’d gotten involved with the sculpting world and started sponsoring competitions and giving out prizes and scholarships. His business had expanded and he’d started manufacturing high-end sculpting tools.
He’d escaped Harlot Bay and returned successful. I suddenly felt the stark contrast between us. I’d escaped and had my own story cut abruptly short. I always had the idea that I would leave Harlot Bay, go to college, work in a business, maybe start my own, and then at some point, something good would happen. I knew I might be lost for a long time, not quite sure where I was going, but I’d always been sure I would end up somewhere good. Turns out that where I’d been going was to burn down an apartment building and then return home to recover.
I let those dark thoughts sink in and countered them with my usual responses. My family is here. I love my family even if they annoy me. There is a magical convergence on Harlot Bay and it keeps me grounded, makes me feel good. When I was away I was disconnected from who I truly am, a Slip witch. It was no wonder things went bad. You can only lie to yourself for so long before the cracks become crevices, the crevices become canyons, and the whole thing falls apart. I let the thoughts come and go and then dug into the deaths on the butter-carving circuit. I found a few; one of them was even a former client of Fusion Swan. But there was nothing to tie it back to butter carving or anyone involved with it in any meaningful way. There had been deaths at previous competitions that Preston Jacobs had sponsored, and in those cases they’d found the perpetrators. One was a man who murdered a carver because he thought he was having an affair with his girlfriend. In another, a woman died after being injected with poison. The woman who murdered her proclaimed her innocence, but they’d clearly been romantic rivals for another woman’s affection.
I went back to my document and started typing. I listed a few random points—deaths on the butter-carving circuit, an agent who represented the drug affected and drunks, the money, the prestige and the greed. Holt Everand had been the most recent in a long line of people to die in strange circumstances. At first, all I had was pieces and I couldn’t see the connections. It was like I was standing up on the Harlot Bay Lighthouse and the entire town was covered in fog. At first I could see only a few lights here and there, but eventually the fog cleared away and I could see one street and then another. Soon the patches of dark vanished and I found myself with an article. It didn’t accuse anyone of anything—that was important. I didn’t actually have any evidence that Fusion Swan had killed anyone. For all I knew, he was just a vulture who feasted on the untimely deaths of his clients.
I read through the article a few times, making sure it was fair, accurate, and factual. I didn’t want to get sued. I wanted to be able to report on the untimely deaths of sculptors and the money to be made from representing those with problems. I was pondering whether to publish it that moment or wait a day to see how I felt the next morning when I heard a thumping of feet coming up the stairs. A moment later, Jack appeared in the doorway.
“Harlow Torrent. Hard at work after jumping in a fountain.”
Oh, I’d forgotten that he had been at the Butter Festival. How much had he seen?
“I got a little hot. Had to cool off.”
“Hot? What caused your temperature to rise?” Jack stepped into the office and gave me a look that was very much that of a scoundrel. I stood up from my computer, took a step back and crossed my arms. He was handsome, yes, and he had a grin that was making butterflies jump around my stomach. And yes, he even had some stubble that would be very nice to run my fingers across. But he was a tourist. This is how tourists always appear—sexy, mysterious and transient.
“Can I help you with something?”
“You can—” Jack looked at my screen. He saw that I’d left some windows open about Preston Jacobs, the Butter Festival, and some deaths.
“Ah, so you’re looking into Preston Jacobs? What do you think about all the deaths?”
I walked over to my laptop and closed it.
“I’m more interested in Mr. Fusion Swan at the moment, actually. He represents a lot of people who have died in a lot of unfortunate ways. They often have problems with alcohol . . . and drugs.”
“Really? Do you think he and Preston Jacobs are good friends? Could they be working together?”
He’d taken a step toward me, and I could smell some sort of aftershave. Or maybe it was just him. Something warm, some hint of spice that I couldn’t quite place. Oh no, what had Aunt Cass asked me? Had I smelled cinnamon? I took in a breath through my nose. But it wasn’t cinnamon. It was just . . . male. Male with stubble and those eyes verging on blue and green, a male who knows he’s a little bit gorgeous and uses that to his advantage.
“What’s your interest, exactly? Are you a reporter?”
“You should come out with me.”
The butterflies in my stomach started flitting like crazy.
“You’re a tourist,” I managed to say without my voice squeaking at all.
“You should come out with me, and we can discover whether you and I are good together.”
The butterflies turned into hippopotamuses stomping their way around my body. I took a breath—I could still smell his aftershave or whatever that was—and tried to calm myself.
I shook my head. He was very persistent, but I knew just how to get rid of him.
“Okay, fine. If you’re still here in two weeks, you can take me out on a date.”
Jack stepped forward and held out his hand. I shook it, feeling the tiny rough patches on his skin.
“It’s a deal.”
He smiled at me and then turned back toward the door.
“You should know something, though: you’re a tourist. I live here in Harlot Bay. So there’s not ever going to be a you and me.”
Jack rubbed his stubble, and I found myself suddenly focused on his hands. Strong, rough.
“No,” he said and walked away, heading to the door.
“What? What do you mean, no?”
He stopped in the door and looked back.
“I know you like me. If we go out, you’re going to like me even more. Then what? You’re going to stick with this whole you’re-a-tourist-I-don’t-date-tourists bit? I don’t think so.”
I crossed my arms again, realized I was pushing my cleavage up, and then dropped them to my sides.
“I can take back that date.”
“You shook on it. I’d be very surprised if a North Carolina girl would break a deal. Two weeks.”
He smiled at me and then was gone down the stairs.
I rushed to the window and saw him walking off down the street. He glanced back up at me and grinned to himself when he caught my eye.
Then he turned a corner and was gone.
I found myself overheating again, and this time it had nothing to do with any sort of magical immune response.