Thirty-Seven

This time, there was no music. Just the dull thud of hammer striking wood. Inside Jeffrey’s workshop, light prismed through the stained glass window and onto the concrete floor. Charley walked over the shimmering pattern of green and gold and red, following the sound, past steel-tipped power tools and heavy wooden planks. The sawdust layer was thicker here, scuffed by the snaking imprint of extension cords and footprints.

She found Jeffrey leaning over the workbench, assembling a wooden table, a rich reddish-brown hue. Three legs were finished. The joints fit together like puzzle pieces.

Rubber mallet in his hand, he turned to face her. The flicker of annoyance was quickly hidden by a grin that fanned laugh lines around his eyes. Judging from the gleam of sweat at his brow, he’d been hard at work for a while. And she was interrupting him.

As though reading her thoughts, he said, “I’m playing catch-up with this project.” A coarse grain swirled through the wood, interspersed with darker marks. Sun caught on the razor-edged teeth of the table saw. He rested the rubber head of the hammer on the scarred work surface. “I hear you’ve got car trouble.”

“Again.”

“Happen often?”

Only all the time. “Let’s just say it’s surprising when everything’s running smoothly.”

“Then let’s take a look at the patient.” Solid thump of the hammer as he set it down. “See what we can do.” He led the way back out through a maze of planks, unfinished cabinets, and stools. “Shame about the gallery.”

She should have expected it. News of a break-in, at a building on Main Street, would spread through Oakcrest fast, but it caught her off guard anyway. “I’m with you on that one.”

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Did someone use the opening to scout out the wares?”

She shook her head. “Nothing was stolen. But they damaged —” She hesitated. “— some of the art.” Took a knife to it.

“Vandalism?” He sounded surprised. “That must have been one hell of a shock.”

She stepped outside after him. “That’s an understatement.”

Their steps crunched over gravel as they walked to the Jeep.

“Start the car,” he said, “and we’ll have a listen.”

Sure, easy as that.

She slid behind the wheel and turned the key, expecting that same empty click as before. But after a few seconds, the engine cranked. A slow start, but it turned over. Wasn’t that just typical?

She was about to warn him about the hood when he popped it open, leaned his weight against the rod, and locked it in place. The hood stayed open.

Leaning over the engine, he said, “Alex must have an idea who did it.”

Oh, he had an idea all right. “Yeah, he does.” She watched Jeffrey examine the parts with the confidence of someone who knew his way around the inner workings of a car.

“Local kids?” he asked. “Or cottagers?”

A stranger, that was always the easiest solution. But both guesses were off the mark. “Kids didn’t do this.”

“You think?” The rumble of the engine muffled his voice.

“This was different, targeted.” Purposeful.

“Is that Alex’s opinion?” He flicked a glance at her, his brown eyes thoughtful.

“His. And mine.”

“You’ve been in Oakcrest how long?” Casual, his focus on the battery terminal. “And you managed to piss someone off already?”

Something felt off. An uneasy feeling tingled at the back of her neck. “Seems like it.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Put together the clues and hunt them down.”

Jeffrey straightened and pulled a threadbare cotton rag from his back pocket. He wiped his hands. “Things go wrong often enough, maybe it’s not meant to be.”

Speechless, it took her a second to recoup. Her spine stiffened. “Is that what you told Matt when he wanted to open Chocoholic’s?”

He gave her an assessing gaze. “Sometimes obstacles are signs.”

And she’d been too dead set on fulfilling her dream to see them? “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

“I always wondered if the message there is to rise to the occasion. Or leave.”

That was blunt. “And that’s what you think I should do? Leave?”

Clouds scrolled through the blue sky. A chorus of birdsong spilled from the trees shading the edges of the driveway from the brunt of the sun.

He considered her. “What’s the point in dealing with all these challenges when you’re just here for the summer anyway?”

So that was it. Charley put her hands on the frame of the Jeep, felt the heat of the metal burn her palms. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“Matt seems to.”

Seems to. “But?”

“Oakcrest is a stepping stone for you.”

And how could she argue that?

Before she could reply, Jeffrey said, “The alternator cables don’t look cracked or frayed. You’ve got some corrosion around the battery terminal though. How old is it?” His shift in tone, lighter again, seemed like an offer. An olive branch she was happy to accept.

“Three years, probably.”

“Then that’s your problem. Friend of mine owns a wrecking yard. He tends to have spare parts, sells them on the cheap. I bought a decent battery from him last year. He might have one lying around. Then it’s just a matter of installing it. I’ll clean the tray and the cables for you so we can get a better look at this thing.” He flashed his devil-may-care grin at her. “Too bad we can’t simply pop a Tylenol in the gas tank.”

Surprised into a laugh, she said, “I wish.”

“I’ll just grab a socket wrench from the shop.”

“I can get it.” He was helping her out with the Jeep. The least she could do was the footwork.

“Do you know what it looks like?”

She shot him a glance. “Please.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. But it’ll be faster if I look myself.”

“Try me.”

The frown was quick, then gone. He shrugged. “There’s a rack of storage boxes by the workbench. They look like drawers, clear tops. They’re all labelled.”

“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll be right back.” She left him standing by the Jeep, balling the rag between his hands.

Despite the clutter, the workshop was well-organized. She saw that now. Tools were laid out neatly on the workbench, within easy reach. Like a chef’s mise en place, everything in its place and all the set-up done beforehand. No wonder Matt felt at home here.

There, that must be the rack Jeffrey meant. It was filled with storage drawers. Although neatly labelled, some stickers had worn off, leaving behind darker sections in the sun-faded plastic. Bearings. Nuts and bolts. Screws. Lots of different screws. But no sized sockets.

She hesitated for a second, then opened the drawer. Inside were sharpened bits of steel and brass that had her thinking of androids and spaceships. She grinned at that. The next drawer was filled with more screws, all sectioned off in inset compartments.

Further down, almost at the bottom of the rack now, she pulled out another drawer. And froze.

Through the clear plastic lid, she saw the rectangular shape of a book.

That was odd. Why would a book be kept here?

Condensation fogged the inside of the lid, drops of moisture beading at the edges.

Leave it alone.

She checked over her shoulder. She shouldn’t — but one quick glance couldn’t hurt.

She pulled the drawer out, set it on the stool. With a snap, she opened the lid. And felt her breath catch.

She’d looked that book up online just days ago.

The black and white photograph on the cover showed a sky-scraper shrouded in mist. The image delicate as a charcoal drawing, moody and atmospheric. She ran her fingertips over the leaf-shaped cut-outs in the dust jacket that gave way to the bright green board beneath. Felt that change in texture from glossy paper to rough binding.

The cover was visual and tactile, and more expensive to produce, which was why a different design had been used for the reprint.

She held a first edition of Hamadryads in her hands. In pristine condition. The edges still crisp as they’d been on the day of publication. But they wouldn’t be for long, if the book stayed in that plastic container in the workshop.

She flipped to the copyright page. Checked the date, the name of the cover artist. A memory she couldn’t catch hold of teased at the back of her mind. There was something familiar about the way the photograph was composed. Soft-focus and almost painterly. That silver typography, too.

Why was the book — this rare first edition — here, in the workshop? Tucked in a drawer. It should be stored on a bookshelf, not in what was essentially a plastic box in an environment full of sawdust.

Socket wrench forgotten, she strode outside, book in hand. Jeffrey glanced up, eyes narrowing against the sun.

She said, “I found this with the tools.”

Jeffrey had his hand on the hood, knuckles white. Hot light glared off the metal. “A book won’t help us much here.”

“I’ve never seen a copy in person before.” Still good as new, for now. “The workshop might not be the best place to keep it.”

“Last time I checked, it was my business where I kept my things.” His face had gone carefully blank.

“Moisture and heat can lead to foxing or warp the paper.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. It’s chaos in there, as I’m sure you noticed.” He held his hand out for the book and she stepped back on instinct. A flash of something in his eyes set off warning bells in her head.

It was organized chaos. Lots of labels. Everything in its place. Except that book. “This edition is rare. How did you manage to track one down?”

“Luck,” he said with a simmer of anger that surprised her.

“I’ll say.” A once-in-a-lifetime strike. “This copy of Hamadryads is hard to find. And valuable.”

“Only if someone’s willing to pay the price.” An undertone of bitterness there that had her wondering.

“How much did you pay for it?” She watched him, caught the twist of pain before he hid it.

“More than you’ll ever know.”

And to think, in a span of a week, she might have seen that rare cover twice. “Matt had a copy of the first edition, but —”

“Life’s full of coincidences. Hand it over.” His voice was low, threatening.

She took another step back, more than an arms-length away — farther now from the Jeep, too — and held the book tighter.

Then something changed. The tension seemed to drain from him, leaving him older, less substantial. “That book’s been nothing but trouble.” He looked her in the eye. “I was going to return it.”

To who? The guilt on his face could only be for one reason. Her heart thudded. To Matt. This was his copy. “You took it from him.”

He shook his head. “I borrowed it.”

Without telling him. “Why?”

“To get a second chance,” he said simply. “I needed the cash to get the equipment, to get a fresh start.”

“You planned to sell it.” Highest bidder wins all.

The silver lettering glinted beneath the title. The original byline. Sam West. Nick Thorn’s pen name.

“I was going to buy the book back, when I could.” He dragged a hand through his hair, with the rough, restless movement of a caged animal. “Matt was giving the damn thing away. Didn’t have a clue what he had. Thanks to your comment the other day, I did. So, I took the opportunity. Better me than someone else, I figured.” A smile hitched his mouth. “Only reason he noticed it was gone was because he wanted to use it to impress you.” She’d heard him use that same tone before, to tease Matt.

“But you couldn’t find a buyer.”

“Couldn’t keep it in the house either. I had a hell of a time sleeping while it was in the other room.”

“The telltale heart beneath the floorboards,” she murmured.

He blinked. “What’s that?”

“Nothing. So, you brought it to the workshop.” And got in deeper.

Jeffrey looked at the big green building behind them. “Not my wisest move, I’ll admit,” he said, with a self-deprecating honesty that was unguarding. “I was trying to figure out how to give it back to Matt without him realizing what I’d done.” For one second, she saw past the quick grin to the regret beneath.

“I could help you with that.” She spoke without thinking.

“Are you trying to tell me you can turn back time?”

She smiled. “No, but I might be able to return the book for you.”

Wary still, he asked, “Without him knowing?”

She could try. “It’s worth a shot.”

Hope, and something else she couldn’t read, flickered in his eyes. “Fixing my mistakes for me?”

She thought of the gentle brush of Matt’s thumb over her cheekbone. “If I can.”

A cellphone rang. Jeffrey pulled it out of his back pocket, checked the screen and his brows rose. “Sorry, I need to take this.” He turned away, listening.

His shoulders tensed. “But I just saw him the other day. Right.” Careful edge to his voice. “Yeah, been burning himself out.” Another pause. “Keep me posted.” He hung up the call, his face pale.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“I’ll say.” He looked at the phone in his hand. “That was Jennifer, Thomas’s daughter. He” — Jeffrey shook his head in disbelief — “he’s in the hospital. Chest pains had him calling an ambulance last night.”

“Last night?” Two words and her theory flew apart in pieces.