Thirty-Nine
“It wasn’t Thomas,” Charley said when Matt opened the door. The first edition of Hamadryads weighed down her purse, heavier than it should have been.
“Run that by me again?” He leaned against the doorjamb. Chocoholic’s had closed for the day about an hour ago. He looked as tired as she felt.
At her feet, Cocoa’s tongue hung out as she panted, eyes bright after running alongside the bike.
Charley dragged a hand through her hair, fingers snagging in windblown tangles. “Thomas had a minor heart attack. He’s being kept for observation. Meaning, he was in the hospital this morning and couldn’t have been at the gallery.”
Matt looked stunned. “He has an alibi?”
“It’s watertight.”
“That changes things.” A frown knit his brows. “Come in. I just put a pot of coffee on.”
The book felt like a ticking time bomb in her bag as she stepped past him, into the house. Instead of setting her purse down on the wooden bench, she kept it with her. If the right moment came up, she’d have to seize it.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the shame, the regret in Jeffrey’s eyes. The fact that Matt’s grin mirrored his.
In the kitchen, a cookbook lay open on the counter, notes in thick black marker scrawled around the recipe. Cardboard boxes covered the Formica table, some stained with water marks.
“You’re busy,” she said. “Sorry, I should have called first.”
“I was going through some old files I found in the basement. Thought I might find some more evidence tying Thomas to Clarkston Engineering. I didn’t get far.” He lifted one of the boxes and put it on the floor, clearing space. “Grab a seat.”
She took the closest chair.
A photograph lay on the table. A four-inch print with the orange cast of degradation, corners curled from damp. The hazy grain pattern and low-contrast background was about thirty years shy of high-resolution. Despite the oxidation, the dust marks, she recognized Jeffrey’s face before Matt palmed the print. The shock of dark hair. The grin, so wide and bright you could hear that laugh echoing across time.
How could she have missed the similarities before? The bone structure, the mannerisms so alike, now that she knew.
Restless tension coursed through her. “I was sure he did it.” She drummed her fingers on the table. The book more on her mind than murder, right now. But she’d have to be patient. Wait for the right opportunity. “He could have hired someone to break into the gallery for him.” The thought had hit her at the gallery that afternoon. “But why risk getting someone else involved?”
Matt grabbed the cereal bowl drying in the dish rack. He filled it with water and set it on the floor for Cocoa. “It wouldn’t be smart. And yet, he seemed like the kind of guy who prided himself on being two moves ahead of everyone else.”
“Except with his house.”
Matt took two mugs down from the cupboard. Steam rose as he poured the coffee. “That was out of his control, depended on someone else. If he could have done it on his own, I’m sure he would have.”
“And that’s probably what put him in the hospital. He’s been working too hard. The stress was wearing on him. You could see it.” Carving lines into his face. “Put that much pressure on yourself, you’re going to crack at some point.”
Could she leave the book here, in the kitchen? Tuck it into one of the boxes sitting on the floor? Only if Matt left the room. But if he’d already gone through that box, set the contents aside to recycle, the book could end up in a landfill by accident. If that happened, she’d never forgive herself.
“And you’re putting pressure on yourself right now.” Matt brought the mugs to the table, then took the other chair. “Feet.”
“What?” She blinked.
“Do you ever do anything without asking a million questions first? Put your feet up.” He swung them onto his lap, and his fingers zoned in on the pressure points beneath her arch. His thumbs worked over the muscles and she felt the tension melt away under the warmth of his hands. “So, Thomas didn’t break into the gallery,” he said. “But he could still be the murderer.”
“How? The two events are connected.” They had to be. Matt peeled off her sock, and his hands touched bare skin. “It’s cause and effect.” She lost her focus as his thumb stroked down her toe. “Why else would someone leave a threatening message in the —” Her brain stuttered as his fingers pressed on her instep. “— the gallery?”
“But what if it wasn’t a threat?” he asked. “What if it really was just jealousy? You sold a painting.”
“Two, actually.”
Matt grinned. “Right.” He sobered. “But others didn’t. Kayla could have damaged the painting out of spite.”
“Alex took Kayla in for questioning today,” she told him.
“What did she say?” His fingers rubbed the length of her arch, from heel to toes.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been back to the cottage yet.” From the b&b, she’d gone to the gallery, then straight to Matt’s, soon as she knew he’d be home.
“You came here first?” His whole attention aimed on her. His fingers traced slow, distracting circles over her ankle, under the hem of her jeans.
“I thought it would help if we” — okay, that felt really nice — “talked it through.”
Matt slid forward on the chair, so her legs were on either side of him, his hands resting just above her knees. “Did it help?”
“It did when I could think straight.” The weight of his hands on her legs, the heat of his touch, didn’t help. Her insides felt like a pot on a slow simmer.
“Maybe not thinking is a good thing,” he said in a low voice.
He was close enough for her to see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “Not when it comes to solving a mystery.”
“We might have to postpone that for a bit,” he murmured. Then his mouth closed over hers.
This was a bad idea. She just couldn’t remember why.
So much for self-control. Matt’s breathing was deep and even and warm against her neck, his arm heavy over her waist. Every part of her was hyper-aware of him. And of the fact that she’d happily stay there forever. A dangerous thought.
Her heart already skipped a beat when she saw him. Now they had entered the mind-blowing physical relationship phase. Distracting was an understatement.
Biting her lip, Charley eased out from under his arm, and waited. His face was half buried in the pillow. He was sound asleep.
She was tempted to stay there, but she’d never get a better chance. She could put the book in a spot where he’d find it later and be back before he even realized she was gone.
He had the quilt draped over him, but the cotton sheet was half on the floor. Snagging the edge, she gave it a tug, then wrapped it around herself. It would have to do.
She tiptoed toward the door. Creak. She winced and froze. Floorboard. Nothing was ever silent in an old house.
Matt shifted, stretched out an arm.
Holding her breath, she opened the door and slipped out into the hall. Closed it carefully behind her. Now she just had to figure out where to leave the book.
Nowhere obvious, otherwise he’d wonder why he hadn’t seen it earlier.
The office off the kitchen. His dad’s office. Matt wouldn’t question it if he found it there. He was fast asleep. She’d have time to look for the right place.
She tiptoed down the stairs, quickly, quietly. Heart pounding in her ears, jackhammer loud.
On the carpet below, Cocoa leaped to her feet, and turned in three excited circles. “Shh.” Charley bent to pat her head, soothing her.
She picked up her purse, slid the book out. The glossy cover felt cool in her hand.
At the office door, she hesitated with a twinge of guilt before pushing it open. It felt like aiding and abetting. But she was righting a wrong. The book belonged here.
Had Nick Thorn written Hamadryads at that desk? The hairs on her arms rose at the thought. Most of the bookshelves were empty, but a few titles remained. If she could just leave it in a desk drawer —
“What are you doing?”
With a sharp gasp, she whirled around.
Matt watched from the doorway as Charley hid something behind her back. With her other hand, she clutched the white sheet to her chest. The green stem of the dandelion tattoo on her wrist marked a watercolour line along her pulse.
He hadn’t expected to find her here, of all places. And not with that look of guilt on her face.
He stepped into the office, and asked again, “What are you doing?”
He’d thrown on a pair of jeans before going to look for her. The carpet felt rough beneath his bare feet. The old oak tree outside the window shook on a breeze, sending shadows skittering from the corners of the room and up the walls to the ceiling.
“I was going to reheat the coffee,” she said.
Maybe that was true, but — “Kitchen’s the other way.” Standing beside his dad’s leather armchair, he crossed his arms. “Looking for more info for Meghan?” Disappointment did a quick pitch and roll in his stomach.
She went completely still. “That’s your first thought? That I was spying?”
He moved forward, two more steps. Just an arm’s span away from her now. Charley tensed but didn’t back away. “I know one thing for sure. You’re hiding something. What is it?”
She held her ground. “Nothing.” And looked him right in the eye when she said it. But the lie had a flush spreading over her collarbone, up her neck.
“Okay.” He leaned a shoulder against the bookshelf, prepared to stay there until he got an explanation. It struck him that they’d stood like this before, in The Coffee Nook. “I’ll wait.”
“It’s not important.”
“Show me, then.” This was the second time she’d kept something from him. The postcard, now this.
A breath lifted her shoulders. Leaving a second’s gap of silence big enough for panic to creep into. He debated dropping the whole thing, when she said, “It’s just a book.”
He flicked a glance at the shelf behind her. “Which one?”
Charley bit her lip and hesitated. Then drew her arm out from behind her. “Hamadryads.”
The sight of the black and white cover, those green leaves, knocked the wind out of him. “Yeah, I recognize the book.” The iron-grey title glinted like fool’s gold. She held the book out to him. He didn’t touch it. “What I’d like to know,” he said, “is why you have it. And what you’re doing in here.”
“I found it.”
That, at least, had the ring of truth to it. “Where?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”
More secrets. “Why?”
“Because I promised.”
“Promised who?”
Eyes sparking with frustration, she took a breath and spoke in a calm tone that annoyed the hell out of him. “You just have to trust me.”
It was never a good sign when someone said that. He tried to think past the anger, the doubt. “That’s a little hard to do right now.”
“Fine.” Not so cool now. The edge to her voice had Cocoa trotting into the room.
The dog cocked her head at them.
“Here, take it.” Charley shoved the book at him. “I’m sorry I tried to help.”
The corner of the spine dug into his palm. “It would help if you told me what’s going on.”
Cocoa sat at her feet. A united front.
Charley said, “Sometimes, it’s better not to know.”
Seemed like everyone was singing the same tune these days.
“I disagree.”
Light broke through the branches outside the window, throwing shadows over her face. “Normally I would too but, this time, you really don’t need to know.”
Oh, was that so? “I don’t like it when people make decisions for me. Is this why you came here today?” Because that was what was getting to him, he bit off the words. Hurt flickered in her eyes, but all he could think about right now was his own needs.
“Believe whatever you want.” She stepped around him. “I should go.”
Right. Because that was easier. “I was going to make dinner for us, but yeah, that’s probably best.”
He stayed where he was as he listened to her footsteps, the scamper of Cocoa’s paws over the floor, fade into the distance. For the first time, he flipped the book — that damn book — open.
No dedication. That figured. Rather than use the space to honour someone else or single anyone out, he’d left the page blank. No generic niceties for Nick Thorn. No in memory of.
What the hell was it about Hamadryads?