Sixteen
Sparks. She’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice them. And she’d practically set them off. Charley’s nerves hummed, running as steady as the truck’s engine.
Matt seemed edgy when he first got to the gallery, but he looked relaxed now, arm hanging out of the driver’s side window. The breeze ruffled his hair. His fingers kept time on the steering wheel, to the rhythm set by the Boss. Eyes hidden behind Ray-Bans.
He smelled like lemon shower gel with a hint of dark chocolate. Maybe she should just not breathe.
“You okay?” He glanced over at her.
Caught out, she nearly flushed. “Yeah, fine.” She looked out the windshield. Along the shoulder, bleached ditch grass danced in the wind.
A stainless steel Thermos mug rattled in the cupholder between them, sloshing and probably more than half-full, from the sound of it. He hadn’t even finished his coffee before offering to help her.
Matt flicked on the turn signal, and she sat up straight. That was their lane up ahead. The one that led to their cottage, and to Kayla’s. “Where are we going?”
He made the turn. On the backseat, Cocoa shifted, sensing their trip was about to end.
“Jeffrey’s workshop,” he said.
Of course. Everyone went there when they had a problem that needed fixing.
She cast a glance at him out of the side of her eye. Should she bring it up? They were alone in the car. The timing couldn’t be better. “Alex said he went to see you yesterday.”
His grip tensed on the steering wheel, knuckles shining white. “Yeah? You know about —”
“Kayla called us when she found the body.” And I found the chocolates. But she wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“How is she?”
In shock? Heartbroken? None of those descriptions seemed quite right. “She’s ... dealing with it.”
“Good for her.”
“She’s tougher than she looks.” Or she hid her emotions well.
“Who knew I was teaching a class on murder?” Matt murmured under his breath.
And that would be hard to live with. “The fact that you did teach that class narrows down the suspect list.” Cold comfort, she knew.
“I guess there’s always a silver lining.” His mouth twisted in a smile. “Alex seems to have a lot of theories.”
Bitterness there. Did he know Alex had him on his list of suspects? “What’s yours?”
“About Andrew’s death?” He took his eyes off the road, and looked at her, one long second, reflections shifting in his sunglasses. “I think it was a damned convenient way to kill him.”
A chill stole over her. “I’m with you on that one.”
The green building appeared up ahead, a beat-up flatbed truck parked out front. Matt pulled up beside it. He lowered the back windows a crack for Cocoa before turning the engine off.
He looked at Charley over the rims of his shades. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t do it.” He got out of the car. “But I’d love to get my hands on the person who did.” He slammed the door. The sound echoed like a gunshot, sharp and final.
She had no doubt he meant every word.
Charley unbuckled her seat belt and stepped out onto sun-dappled gravel. Standing here now, she noticed a narrow ATV trail cutting a path through the thicket of oak and papery birch trees, back out toward the main road.
“Watch where you walk,” Matt told her. “There could be nails.”
End of conversation. Her questions would have to wait. For now. But she had more, a lot more.
An octagonal shimmer of coloured light above the open door caught her eye. Carefully cut and soldered prisms of stained glass, but not just a single panel. The design filled the entire window frame. A hawk in flight. “I’ve been dying to get a glimpse inside this place for years,” she said.
“Really? Why?”
“Are you kidding?”
Behind the big white truck, the garage door stood open, revealing a glimpse of tools, and a floor coated in a layer of sawdust. Music blasted out, heavy on the drums. Whiskey-fueled vocals sang about darkened streets and reckless feelings.
She said, “There’s a stained-glass hawk in that window. The building is large enough to house an airplane. Sometimes, you can hear the sound of a chainsaw all the way up the street.”
“It does catch your imagination, doesn’t it? But it’s a lot less exciting than you think.” Matt led the way inside.
The relentless drumbeat pounded from the speakers, shifting to a joyful and frenzied piano part that kicked up the rhythm of her heart. Those driving notes echoed into the rafters, the ceiling high enough to allow for scaffolding. Beneath the sharper bite of sealant, she caught an undertone of beeswax and the deep, fresh-cut scent of maple and walnut.
“Hello,” he shouted.
No reply.
Matt said to her, “We’ll check the back. He’s probably there.”
She followed close behind him as he moved through the space, leading the way around tables, ladders, and planks of wood. She had a feeling he could find his way through that workshop blindfolded.
He reached for her hand with a quick grin, his fingers lacing through hers, and she let him. Even though it meant she couldn’t stop to take a closer look at the jars of nuts and bolts on the shelf. A still life waiting to be drawn, light caught in the cloudy glass, fracturing through the red plastic handle of the screwdriver, to cast reflections on the metal file.
“There he is,” Matt said.
In the shadows, a man lifted the last shelf out of a beautiful wooden bookcase. She fought the urge to run her palm over the honey-toned surface. Lustrous and sanded to perfection. The tang of varnish still fresh in the air.
“Need help with that?” Matt raised his voice to be heard.
A flash of pleasure lit the man’s face. Followed by curiosity when he spotted Charley. He had the lean, tough build, the broad and calloused hands, of a man used to physical labour. Thick brown hair just starting to streak silver, shot through like wood grain.
He reached for a control resting on the stool nearby and lowered the volume, taking the edge off the music. “Back so soon?” Stance easy and hipshot, he turned to her. “I can’t seem to get rid of him.”
“And you tried your best. Gave me all the worst jobs when I was a teenager. Crawlspaces.” Matt shuddered. “I still have nightmares.”
“Had to test your mettle, didn’t I?” He winked.
“Did he pass?” she asked.
“With flying colours.” Warmth and a great deal of pride filled his voice. “Jeffrey Haste. I’d shake your hand, but, well.” He looked ruefully at his varnish-stained fingers.
“I’ll take a rain check. I’m Charley Scott.”
“Meghan’s little sister?”
Amused, she said, “That’s right.”
“The one with the gallery.” He raised his eyebrows at Matt in a silent male exchange she pretended not to see. “I knew your grandfather.” He bent to align the shelves, stacking one on the other. “Good man. Loved fishing, if I remember right. And telling jokes.”
“He did.” All the time. She decided at that moment that she liked this gruff man.
“Maybe we met before,” Matt said. “Passed each other by one summer without even realizing it.”
It was Oakcrest. They probably had. But she was sure she would have remembered.
“Fate?” Jeffrey teased.
“A grand design?” Charley grinned.
“Could be.” Matt put his hand on the bookshelf. “Are you loading this up?”
“If you take one end, that’d be great.” A beat went by. “Unless you’re trying to impress the lady and want to carry it on your own.” The grin was quick, the tone tongue-in-cheek.
Matt shot him a glance and got a grip on the top of the bookcase. “The lady’s already impressed.”
“Is she?” she asked dryly.
They tilted, lifted the shelf. “Has he cooked for you yet?” Jeffrey asked.
“No, he hasn’t.” She picked up two of the shelves. Even tough guys wouldn’t turn down a little help.
“His cooking, I have to admit, is impressive,” Jeffrey said. “He had an excellent teacher.” Humour there.
“And a modest one at that.” Matt backed his way through the space, feeling his way heel first. Well-coordinated, they moved in step, with just a nod or a glance needed to shift, adjust. A practice honed over time.
A wool blanket was already laid out in the bed of the truck. She waited for them to hoist the bookcase in, then slid the shelves in beside it.
Matt stepped back. “Where’s this going?”
The pause was too long. Jeffrey scratched his throat, eyes on him. “The Coffee Nook.”
“Yeah? New display?”
“For a local author.” Again, that same expression in his eye, at once sharp and watchful. “Book’s being released on Monday.”
Matt’s head snapped up, attention all on Jeffrey. “That so?”
She wished she could read the subtext. Because the air was thick with it. “What’s the title?”
“Hamadryads.” The title was wielded like a weapon, and she wondered why. Then Jeffrey turned to face her. “By Nick Thorn.”
Matt Thorn. Nick Thorn. Oh, there was history there. Painful, by the looks of it. “Your dad wrote Hamadryads?” She hadn’t read it, but she’d heard of it. Of course, she had. It was a sci-fi cult hit. One browse through a bookshop and you’d come across a copy. Anywhere in the world.
Matt shrugged, wary eyes still on Jeffrey. “He did.”
“Originally published under the name Sam West.” Jeffrey hooked his thumbs in his pockets, stretched his back. “But all secrets come out at some point, don’t they?”
“Yeah.” Matt shifted his weight. “Listen, we actually came to borrow a live trap.”
The flicker of disappointment in Jeffrey’s eyes was shut down quick, but not before she’d spotted it. She saw the shift, as they moved back onto safe ground. Neutral territory.
“Rodent problem?” Jeffrey asked.
“Squirrel,” she replied.
“At the gallery?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Nasty buggers. Might as well take some steel wool and spray foam too.”
Matt smiled, though it fell short of his eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Paying off my debts, remember?”
That comment brought back his grin, full wattage. “That’ll take years.” Their banter had a well-worn rhythm to it.
“I plan to lead a long and healthy life.” Jeffrey rocked back on his heels. “Help yourself. You know where everything is.”
Matt was already heading back inside. As he passed, Cocoa gave a joyful bark from the back seat of the truck.
Jeffrey squinted up at the sizzling sky. “So, you’re opening the gallery.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why cover art?”
The question took her aback. “Excuse me?”
“‘Cover Art’. I’ve seen the poster. Where’s that come from?”
“Oh.” She relaxed, focusing on the light breeze, the warmth on her face. When would she stop assuming a comment or question about her art was a set-up for criticism? Probably long after the exhibit ended.
She said, “I got my first summer job at the library here in Oakcrest. And discovered that the gateway to that magical world, filled with stories, was art.” Yellowed paperbacks and pulp fiction covers. “I got hooked. Completely. The best designs have this quality about them that goes beyond words, that speaks directly to you. Book covers charm and they make a promise.”
“About?”
“Thrills. Happily ever afters.” She didn’t have to think about the answer, it was right there, waiting. “Dell paperback mysteries had a ‘mapback’ cover that showed the location of the murder so that the reader could visualize the setting. You knew right away what you were getting when you picked one of them up. And, of course, some covers become iconic. And valuable. Especially in a small print run. Some are worth thousands.” Rare and ephemeral, dust jackets were icons of graphic art and could increase a first edition’s value. “A rejected Tintin cover illustrated by Hergé sold at auction for €3.2 million.”
“All thanks to a pretty picture on the cover?”
“That makes a promise.” She smiled.
“Heads up.” Charley just managed to catch the cardboard box sailing toward her. She looked at the bulldog on the front. Steel wool. Matt walked toward them, carrying a rectangular metal cage, two cans of spray foam clamped under his arm. “We’re good to go.” He dropped the cage into the back of the truck.
Jeffrey walked around the side of the vehicle. “Best give the critter a bath after.” He nodded his head at the cage.
Drown it? Her stomach twisted. It was a gruesome thought. “Oh no,” she said. “That’s not happening. Not on my watch.”
Matt shook his head. “If Charley catches anything, we’ll release it somewhere far away.”
Jeffrey raised an eyebrow. “Find it a happy new home? Sometimes kindness can be a weakness.” He looked in the backseat of the truck. “Who’s this?”
“Cocoa.” She made the introductions as Cocoa stretched her head out of the window as far as possible, angling for an ear rub.
Jeffrey shot Matt an amused glance. “Seventy percent?”
“Nah.” He climbed in the driver’s seat. “Sweeter than that.”
The tone was casual.
And dangerous. Because, if she wasn’t careful, that kind of line could melt her heart.
Back at the gallery, Charley was ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work.
With a clank of metal, she unlocked the stepladder she used to hang paintings. And banged her elbow on the wall. Pain shot up her arm, straight to her shoulder. She rubbed a hand over the ache and grimaced.
The trap door leading to the attic was in a closet off what was meant to be the living room in the upstairs apartment. A very small closet.
Fighting the urge to swear, because that wouldn’t help anything, she positioned the ladder under the door. The base wobbled on uneven floorboards before settling.
From the other room, she heard Matt say, “Some apple slices should do the trick.”
“An apple as temptation.” She climbed the stepladder and reached over her head, pressing her fingertips to the fitted square cover. “Works every time, I guess.”
“Need any help?”
She looked down at him. Not too far down. He was taller than she thought. And close.
Matt crossed his arms and settled a shoulder against the door-jamb. “I thought you might want someone to scout out the terrain. Give the all-clear, before you go up.”
“Check for monsters?” She stood on her toes, the soles of her Keds flexing, as she applied more pressure. She felt the shift, the give as the square cover lifted off the frame. “Do I look like a wuss?” She angled the panel and gave it a shove, to slide it out of the way. Hot musty air washed over her. The opening gaped into darkness.
“Okay, so I’m off then.”
With a knee-jerk reaction, she glanced back.
Matt grinned. He hadn’t budged. “I’ll follow you up,” he said.
“Thanks,” she muttered. She got one knee up on the top of the ladder and a good grip on the frame of the attic access hatch. Her palms on solid ground, she levered herself up.
And felt a helping hand on her hip.
She froze. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Unnecessary.”
The hand disappeared.
When she was through and up, she looked back down and frowned.
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry at all. Matt handed up the box of steel wool and spray foam. “Move over. I’m coming up.”
Charley stood. The attic was dark and unfinished. Too many shadows clung to the walls. One bare, burned-out, useless bulb hung from a roof joist down at the far end. A few slats of light filtered through the intake vents under the eaves, but not enough to slow the pulse throbbing in her throat.
The heat was stifling beneath the low rafters. “Watch your —”
Thunk. He swore ripely.
“Head,” she finished.
“Yeah, got that.” Matt rubbed the back of his head, where he’d whacked it on the wooden beam. He seemed to take up all the space in the attic, filling it with long legs and broad shoulders.
Ducking beneath the sloped ceiling, she stepped carefully along the floor joists, spreading her weight evenly. It was too much to hope there might be floorboards. One wrong step and she’d crack the drywall ceiling of the room below or fall right through. The landing wouldn’t be pretty.
Sticky threads hit her cheek. Cobwebs, ugh. Thick and old. She brushed the silvery strands away and wondered where the spider was hiding. Hopefully somewhere far away.
There were scratches in the grime coating the wooden joists. Animal tracks? And dead moths.
A pile of debris in the corner caught her eye. Squatting down for a closer look, she smelled the faint but unmistakable odour of rot. Brittle pinecones and dry leaves, crumbling to dust. Nuts, too.
“Looks like prime storage space.” She picked up a pinecone and tossed it to Matt.
It was a good throw. Nice and easy.
The pinecone bounced off his shoulder and fell to the floor.
Matt just stood there, staring. His eyes following the line of the floor. The expression on his face — it looked like he’d seen a ghost.
The thought had the hairs on her arms rising. She swallowed hard and fought the urge to check over her shoulder. A cramped, dimly lit attic. The prodigal son. What better time for Lizzie to make her appearance than right at that very moment? “Matt?”
He jolted. “Yeah. Sorry.” He seemed to shake it off, refocus on her. “I thought I saw something.”
A shiver ran through her, but she smiled. False bravado never hurt. “Probably stars, after that bump on the head.”
“Could be.” He moved toward her, balancing along the joists like a gymnast, ducking carefully to avoid the beams. “There’s light coming through there.” He pointed behind her, to the sliver of daylight seeping through the wall. Just above her head, but not out of reach. “Looks bigger than an airflow vent. You might want to start there.”
She’d already spotted it, but she’d let him have that one. He’d hit his head, after all. “Got it.”
She had her back to the wall. In that small dimly lit space, he stood close to her. Almost hemming her in. If she angled her chin the right way, their lips would brush.
Their eyes locked and her stomach did a slow roller-coaster dive.
“Chocolate.” His voice sounded husky. “I should be making chocolate.”
“And selling it.” Her own voice was suddenly thick.
He braced his hands on the wall on either side of her, caging her in. Or steadying himself. Seemed like she wasn’t the only one off-balance.
His eyes moved to her mouth. Danger-zone close. “I should go.”
“You’re already late,” she murmured.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “That detour to the workshop did it.” He moved in, a little closer. Their legs brushed, denim to denim.
His eyes were like molten chocolate. The air in the attic suddenly seemed several degrees hotter than before.
Something clattered downstairs.
“Charley?” A voice called. “Are you up there?”
They leaped apart, putting space between each other. Lots of it.
Her heart thundered. “Is that Kayla?”
“Sounds like.” Matt rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Guess that’s my cue to leave.”
“Thanks for your help.” Just a second longer... But it was probably better this way. She couldn’t handle any more complications. She had more than enough as it was.
“Call me if you need me.” He shot her a wicked grin over his shoulder, before disappearing down through the trap door.
Whew. Alone in the attic, Charley blew out a breath. Next time she saw Matt Thorn, she’d be keeping her distance.
Two feet apart or more, from now on.