Fifteen

Matt should have been driving through predawn streets. Instead, the sun slanted white-hot through the windshield as he turned off Pine Ridge Road onto Main Street. At a time when he should have been a good couple hours into cutting slabs of ganache.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d handed the killer the murder weapon.

He’d spent most of the night staring up at the dark ceiling, circling around the same two questions. Who? Why? Wracking his brain to figure out the answers. If anyone could do it, it should be him. He’d been there. He’d taught the damn class.

But, after all that tossing and turning, he still had no idea.

He woke up bleary eyed and beat. Hit the snooze button one too many times. Luckily, if he chose to linger, eat a waffle straight from the toaster, smeared with hazelnut-chocolate spread, while zoning out to SportsCentre, he could. He wasn’t about to fire himself.

Matt grinned at the thought and reached for his Thermos. He took a swig of coffee. The liquid seared his tongue. He sucked in air through his teeth. Hot. And sweet as syrup. He’d been heavy-handed with the sugar, though that was probably a good thing. He needed the kick. Preferably straight to the blood stream.

A few open signs already out on the sidewalk. Shit. But Main Street was so postcard perfect, it took tourists a while before they even realized there was more to see one street over. And ifanyone came by, saw the CLOSED sign still dangling in his window, cottagers were patient enough to grab a coffee at the café and wait for Chocoholic’s to open.

The street was cloudless and sun soaked. But on the best of days, Oakcrest was pleasure and pain, mixed into one. Like biting your tongue and tasting blood and chocolate at the same time. All that quaint charm, along with the memories he’d rather forget.

When he was tired or run down like today, the past had a raw edge to it, making it harder to ignore.

Maybe that’s why he glanced in the direction of the Mews as he flicked the turn signal on. Gut instinct, and not enough caffeine yet for self-preservation to kick in. Either way, the vehicles parked in front — that flash of red — caught his eye.

He touched the brake, took a longer look. Hold up. Was that a pest control truck, parked outside the Mews? Beside a red Jeep. Charley’s? Before he could think it through, he’d switched off the signal and was driving straight ahead.

He was already late. A few more minutes wouldn’t make a difference.

Cranking the wheel, Matt did a three-point turn and pulled his pickup in behind them, taking the last free space. He parked, yanked the keys out of the ignition.

What the hell was he doing?

Worrying at the wound, that’s what.

Matt got out of the truck. Might as well take a closer look, since he was here.

The wooden boards of the deck creaked beneath his shoes. He walked past The Oakcrest Pantry — kitchen gadgets gleaming in the window — toward the building at the back.

He had a flash of what the place must have looked like while it was being built. Bare bones framework exposed. The sawdust, hot iron smell of construction heavy in the air.

Cinnamon. Mom always had cinnamon gum in her pocket. Christ, he’d almost forgotten that. Not a whole pack, just a few sticks in papery wrappers that left a spicy scent on her sweaters, her coat.

Matt shook off the thought before it could take root and opened the door. Stepping inside on equal parts curiosity and guilt. Like he was about to get caught breaking and entering.

It wasn’t much cooler in than out. The room worked well as a gallery. Good, natural light. White walls, nothing to distract from the art. Though he’d expected to see more pieces on display. Then again, they hadn’t officially opened yet.

The space inside was smaller than he’d imagined. Friendlier. Not at all the way he’d built it up in his mind.

With a scramble of nails over wood, Cocoa came racing toward him.

“Hey.” He stopped to pat the dog, who vibrated with excitement, and looked around. Besides Cocoa, there was no one else in sight.

Matt crouched, hand on warm fur, and looked at the book covers on the walls.

No, not book covers. Paintings, like pulp jackets.

Showing the battlefields of everyday life and the heroine at the heart of each. Bold, vivid, and unexpected. Little tricks — shading, creases — turned the canvases three-dimensional. The portraits rich with details that added gritty realism, despite the vibrant colours. The newsprint stain on a fingertip. The hairline crack in the handle of a porcelain teacup. The splash of dirty water caught in headlights. The weary determination somehow different in each face, but always there.

It took a certain kind of personality to look for, and capture, the good in other people. To recognize those small acts of kindness and courage and put them on display. Preserving them in paint and ink. It made him all the more curious about the artist.

He rubbed the dog’s ear one more time and straightened.

From above, footsteps crossed the floor, echoing through the empty space.

Standing here now, he knew why the rumours had started. Oh, he’d heard them all right. The ghost in the Mews. Sure, people clammed up fast, switched to a whisper when he came close, but he’d caught enough. The hair-raising thrill in their voices when they tossed around ideas about what held her soul down, trapped on earth.

An unnatural, untimely death. Anger. Pain.

Not exactly the way he wanted to envision his mom’s afterlife.

The story had ticked him off at first, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. A fatal accident. An empty building. It was easy to see the temptation to embellish. But that’s exactly what it was. A story. Nothing more.

If he was a little jumpy — catching shadows darting out of the corners of his eyes, the faces on the walls — it was just the caffeine, the sugar high, hitting him harder because he was missing sleep.

Matt looked at the dog. “Are you going to bark at me, if I head up?”

Cocoa sat and panted at him. He’d take that as the go-ahead.

He crossed the room, closing the door behind him. There was probably a reason why Cocoa wasn’t allowed upstairs.

The wooden stairs groaned beneath his feet as he made his way up. Trying not to count how high, how far off the ground.

The scream stopped him dead in his tracks. Slammed the image into his head. Of a woman falling. The sickening thud of impact.

He hadn’t heard that sound echoing through his mind in years.

Heart hammering on a surge of adrenaline, Matt jumped the last two steps and charged through the door.

Blinking against the sunlight pouring through the windows — blue sky filling his vision — he registered Charley spin toward him.

Yellow T-shirt. No blood, no injuries.

It took him a second longer to realize that the screams — short and high-pitched — came from a wiry man standing at the far end of the room. He was looking up at the ceiling, making animal sounds. His tangled beard was timber wolf grey and as feral as the growls coming from his throat. An open bag of tortilla chips clamped in one hand. Barbeque-flavoured Doritos.

“Matt? What are you doing here?” The surprise on her face bordered on shock. He figured it about matched his own expression.

He had just made one hell of an entrance. All he could do now was play it cool. “I was on my way past, saw the truck outside.” He dug his hands in his pockets, trying not to shift his feet. “What’s he doing?”

“Squirrel mating sounds.”

As though that explained everything. “And the chips?”

She shrugged. “Breakfast, apparently.”

A brown-and-white spaniel zipped from one end of the room to the other, doing sweeps, nose to the floor.

The man spoke in a gravelly rasp, at odds with those earlier shrieks. “Yup, you’ve got yourself a squirrel problem.”

Charley said, “That’s why you’re here.” She sounded close to losing her patience.

The man tossed back a fistful of chips. Red crumbs dusted the front of his canvas work shirt. He squinted up. “Trouble is —” He chewed, swallowed. “— the dog can’t get up there.”

She looked at the spaniel. “Why would —”

“If there’s a squirrel here,” the man said with satisfaction, “you better believe that dog there will find it.”

“And then?” Matt asked. He had a bad feeling about the answer.

The man grinned, flashing yellow canines. “There’s nothin’ that dog likes better than squirrel. Dontcha boy?”

Holy shit. Matt looked at the dog’s lolling tongue, the bright eyes and wagging tail. Hard to imagine something that cute could turn vicious.

Charley shook her head. “Hold on. Your website says you offer humane pest-control solutions.”

“Those cost extra.”

She blanched. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted a fast fix.” His hand disappeared in the bag again with a crackle of laminated foil. “The squirrel doesn’t seem to be in the building right now, but we’ll wait it out. They’re busy critters during the day — looking for nuts, scampering up and down trees. Around your attic.” Creases spread around his eyes, though the beard hid most of his grin. “Got my gun in the truck, too, if need be. We’ll get you sorted in no time, just you wait and see.”

An angry flush coloured her cheeks. “Right. That’s it.”

Torn between fascination and pity for the man, Matt leaned a shoulder against the wall. This should be good.

He watched as Charley strode to the door and held it wide open. “Thank you for your time.”

Both the man and the dog looked up at the ceiling with longing. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You won’t find anyone else this time of year,” he warned.

A fierce set to her chin, she said, “I’ll figure it out.”

Matt would have said the same thing.

“That’s your choice, then.” The man slapped chip dust off his hands. “Better get to it fast though, before the critter puts another hole in your ceiling.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Bic ballpoint. Uncapped it. “There’s still the service charge.”

Ten minutes later and fifty dollars shorter, Charley slammed the door behind the man and his dog. Matt made a mental note to stay on her good side.

“Did you see what he wrote on the invoice?” She waved the paper in the air. “‘Good luck.’ Well, I say, good riddance!”

He bit back a smile, more comfortable now that they were back on the ground floor. Harder to dwell on ghosts here, with all that hardboiled courage on the walls and a blissed-out trumpet player improvising a silent solo on his right. “You don’t need luck. You need steel wool and spray foam.”

That stopped her. “What?”

“If you’re going to take care of it yourself, you’ll need to get some.”

Charley narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. “Tell me everything you know.”

He laughed. “You’ll have to find the entry point in the attic. It’s probably no more than a crack. Fill the hole with steel wool and seal it with spray foam, and you just might solve your problem. You can get both at the hardware store. Although —” God, she was cute mad. “I know a guy who has everything we need, including a live trap. We could pay him a visit.”

“Now? Doesn’t Chocoholic’s open at ten?”

And he should have been there long before now. “The gallery can’t open if you don’t get rid of that squirrel, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but I’ve got this. We’ll be fine.”

Cocoa wagged her tail, a full body wriggle.

“I like you a lot better than that other dog,” he told her.

He checked his watch. Odds were good that Jeffrey would be in his workshop. And that’s exactly where Matt should be. In his own workshop. Working. But this would only take half an hour, there and back. He could leave her with the supplies.

He said, “We’re opening late today. Come on.” He held the door open for her.

“I’ll owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He looked down at Charley as she passed him in the doorway and couldn’t resist stealing an old line from the best. “Anything for you, doll.”

She paused, edged in close against him, and gave him a cool, long look that almost stopped his heart. With a husky voice, she said, “You like to play games, don’t you?”

The air thickened, crackling with tension. With anticipation. Should he —

She cracked up. “God, you should see your face. Bacall trumps Bogart any day.” She went out chuckling. “That was a pretty decent imitation, I’ll give you that.” She added over her shoulder, “But don’t call me ‘doll’.”

He should have known better than to quote Bogart to a woman who painted pulp fiction covers.

“Tough crowd.” He rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart, hoping to kick-start it again, and followed her out.

“So —” He waited for Charley to lock the gallery door. “— who’s riding shotgun? You or Cocoa?”

He just managed to sidestep the quick elbow to the gut.