“I thought you might like a bear claw.” Roughly, I tossed dirt-covered pastries into the box. Taken down by a goat? Uncool, Jayce. I scanned the rows of vines for signs of Rascal. He didn’t look like the kind of goat to be satisfied with just one pastry.
“Not anymore,” Rye said. “And to what do I owe this bribe?”
I knew when I was being dissed. But there was something appealing about the man, a warm earthiness. And I guess I have a thing for plaid shirts.
“I wouldn’t call it a bribe,” I said. The grape leaves rustled, and a warm breeze blew across my bare shoulders. “And you owe the pastries to historical research.”
He cocked a brow. “You never struck me as someone interested in the past.”
Right. To most of the town, I was still Jayce the party girl. I could work with that.
“I was always interested in parties.” I grinned. “Even when I was homeschooled. You have no idea how pissed I was when I heard I’d missed your party all those years ago at the Fairy Spring.”
“It wasn’t my party.” Rye’s gaze grew distant, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I’m surprised you remember hearing about it, since you weren’t there.”
“Susan Witsend mentioned it recently.”
He nodded. “I’d forgotten she was there.”
“Do you remember anything... unusual happening?” Like paranormal?
His eyes narrowed. “Unusual?”
“Yeah.”
He crossed his muscular arms. “What are you getting at?” he snapped. “What do you want?”
Now that was an interesting reaction. “I heard there was a spirit board.”
“Was there? I don’t remember.”
I tilted my head. It was the sort of teen party trick that usually got remembered. But why lie about something so silly? “Mac was there,” I prompted. “Were you two close?”
“We were—” His jaw snapped shut. “This is about the murder. Why are you coming to me about that?”
“Because I knew Mac from college. I don’t know his Doyle connections, aside from his family. I’m trying to—”
“Solve the crime?” He arched a brow.
My face flamed. My sisters and I actually had solved murders before, and we weren’t bad at it. But I knew how ridiculous the amateur detective shtick must seem.
“Who could have wanted him dead?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said flatly.
“Then where were you Wednesday at two-thirty?”
Something tugged at my purse. I swiveled my shoulders, jerking away.
“Are you going to ask everyone who knew him that question?” Rye asked.
“Give me the names of other people who knew him, and I will.” Otherwise, I’d be stuck going through Mac’s high school yearbook, if I could find one.
My purse slithered around my hip.
“You might want to deal with that first.” He nodded toward a spot behind me.
I looked over my shoulder. Rascal’s teeth were embedded deep in the corner of my leather bag.
“Hey!” I tugged away.
Rascal planted his hooves and leaned backward, throwing his weight into it.
“Cut that out.” I scowled, tangling in the purse straps.
The goat shook his head, and something tore.
“How do you get him to let go?” I asked.
“I’d suggest a better offer.” Rye turned and strode down the row of vines. “And I was here on Wednesday,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Well.” I sputtered. “That’s just...” The pastries. Hastily, I opened the box and selected a jelly donut. I waggled the treat over Rascal’s head. “Sugar beats leather any—”
The goat lunged, jaws snapping.
I yipped, dropped the donut, and stumbled backward, grabbing a grape trellis for balance.
Rascal snatched the donut off the ground and trotted beneath the grapevines. I watched him longer than I should have. He was irascible enough to come back for more.
But I was mad. Not at the goat, but at myself, at Rye. I knew I wasn’t the same Jayce I’d been. The people who mattered knew who I was. So why had Rye’s party comment bugged me?
I hurried to the parking lot and dumped the box in a dumpster. Brushing off my hands, I surveyed the vineyard. Rye was nowhere in sight.
Rye had lied to me about that party. I narrowed my eyes. Had he told me the truth about Wednesday?
I walked into the tasting room.
The woman behind the bar looked up and smiled. “Did you find Rye?”
“Yeah. Weird question. Rye and I have a bet going, but I think I lost it before it even got started. Does he work Wednesday afternoons?”
She nodded.
“Huh,” I said. “That’s twenty bucks. And he was here last Wednesday, all afternoon?”
She opened her mouth. Her brow furrowed. Her jaw slowly closed. “Well. Actually, he did take a long, late lunch. Does that count?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It does. Thanks.” I headed for the door.
“So who wins the twenty dollars?” she called after me.
“I think we’re both out of luck.”
Thinking hard, I drove back to Doyle. A late, long lunch. That could mean he didn’t have an alibi for Mac’s murder. But why kill Mac?
I adjusted my hands on the wheel and gave a slight shake of my head. The only reason I’d started suspecting Rye was he’d gotten so stiff and defensive about the party. And then when I’d asked if he and Mac had been close—
A moving truck passed me on the highway, buffeting my pickup. A station wagon piled high with suitcases followed it, and my breath caught. I knew that station wagon. It belonged to the Grant family. They were moving?
I shook my head. Focus. I could have been misreading things at the vineyard, but I didn’t think I had. Rye’d been hiding something. I drove past the high school. On an impulse, I whipped into the parking lot and found a visitor’s spot.
I grabbed my purse from the seat beside me and grimaced. The leather had been stretched, and prominent bite marks marred the brown finish. A few thick threads had pulled loose. I could probably repair the stitches, but those bites...
Annoyed, I hitched the bag over my shoulder and walked to the school’s main entrance.
I’d never been inside the high school before, and I paused on its steps. It was hard to believe my sisters wanted to go back to school, even if it was witch school. It felt too late. Too late for Mac. Too late for so many others… My vision blurred.
Blinking rapidly, I climbed the steps into an octagonal rotunda. Open doors to the left led to an office.
I introduced myself to the receptionist. “I’m doing some research—old yearbook stuff—and I’m looking for the library.”
She recorded my driver’s license info, gave me a visitor pass and pointed me down a linoleum hallway.
I walked past rows of lockers to a wooden set of reddish double doors. Through them, I found the librarian, a youngish man in a tight gray sweater.
“How can I help you?” He adjusted his glasses.
“I’m looking for an old yearbook.”
“You can’t check those out,” he said, shaking his shaggy head.
“Oh,” I said, disappointed.
“But you can look at them over here.” He pointed to a row of carrels. “What year do you want?”
I told him, and together we walked down aisles of towering bookshelves. He paused, ran his finger along tall, narrow spines, and pulled out a book with a blue cover. “Here it is.”
“Thanks.” I hurried back to the carrels and flipped to Mac’s senior year. Doyle was a small town, but there were so many faces.
Sighing, I pulled out my phone and photographed pages. Mac hadn’t mentioned playing sports, but I scanned those pages to see if he’d been on any teams.
He hadn’t. I checked other clubs but had no luck there either. Finally, I sat back and shook my head, staring at a group photo.
Yearbook. Mac had been on the yearbook staff. I studied the photos. Everyone in them had left town, most since the riot.
I sat back in the wooden chair and blew out my breath. None of them could have killed Mac. Also, it was starting to hit me just how many townspeople Doyle had lost. These students, the Grant family… The riot last year had changed everything.
I returned the book to its spot and walked to my pickup. The cab was broiling after its short time in the sun. I rolled down the window and drove from the lot.
Digging into Mac’s old high school buddies had been a long shot. But Mac hadn’t been home much since high school, and someone had waited until his return to kill him. His killer had to be someone from his past.
Or the Black Lodge.
My skin went cold, and I rolled the F-150’s window back up. I couldn’t ignore the folklore-magic/black-lodge connection either. But why would they kill him?
“Oh, Mac, what did you find out about that fairy gate?” I muttered.
I pulled into the deserted alley behind Ground and slowed to a halt beside the cinderblock wall. I locked the truck and strode toward my café’s rear entrance.
I’d abandoned my real job for long enough. I’d wait until tonight to start calling Mac’s old high school friends.
I hurried toward the metal stairwell that shaded Ground’s rear door.
“Ah, Jayce,” a man said from behind me.
Pulse rabbiting, I spun to face him.
Three men—one of average size, two ginormous—stood before me. I didn’t need introductions to know who they were.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he continued.
The Black Lodge had found me.