Forty-One

Where had Charley found the book? And why had she lied about it when he caught her returning it?

Words on paper, that’s all that book was. But, as it turned out, those words were valuable, with the right cover. Matt had looked it up, and still couldn’t believe a book could be worth so much.

The Three-Corner Pub was already busy, filled with cottagers looking to spend a Saturday night away from the lake. Kill an hour here, and maybe he’d get Charley off his mind. In any case, it beat staring at those boxes of files again.

He leaned over the bar and caught Jules’s attention. “I’ll have a Guinness.” He pitched his voice over the acoustic guitar riff her husband was playing on the small stage at the back of the room.

“You got it.” She began building the pint from the tap.

Jules and Ben O’Keefe had been the proud owners of The Three-Corner Pub for the past three years. Jules had kind eyes, a nest of fine-spun blond hair, and a no-nonsense attitude that could clear the pub at last call, quelling the complaints of even the most stubborn stragglers.

Matt leaned his elbow on the bar, taking in the sights and sounds of the crowded pub. All the gimmicks that appealed to cottagers, but with enough authenticity mixed in to ensure the locals felt just as comfortable here. Honeyed oak tables, fireplace, canoe paddles hanging on burgundy walls. Tiny black loons stamped on three corners of the white paper napkins. The scent of grilled burgers and caramelized onions filling the air.

He probably should have come here sooner. It helped to get out of the house, escape all the memories and the questions.

Jules set the glass down in front of him, froth licking down the sides and onto the napkin. For a second, she watched her husband on the stage with a grin, then said, “So, where’ve you been hiding?”

“In a chocolate shop.” He took the closest wooden stool, propped his heel on the rung, and settled in.

Wiping her hands on the cloth hooked into the pocket of her jeans, she chuckled, like he knew she would. “And we appreciate it. Especially Cody. I was hoping when he hit his teens he’d grow out of that sweet tooth. Then you showed up, opened shop, and that was that.”

“Hey, your kid’s got a good palate. Knows what he likes.” And appreciated the unusual flavors too. Even his turmeric and cinnamon bar.

“And here I thought he was just a picky eater. I have no idea where he gets his taste buds from.”

“I do.” It was no secret that the pub’s varied menu was her doing. Raising his glass, he was about to take a drink when Alex stormed up beside him.

“Bourbon, whatever you’ve got,” Alex ordered.

On his own on a Saturday night? And itching for trouble if his expression was anything to go by. Though he didn’t think a cop would need to go hunting for more on his downtime. “How’s it going?”

“It’s not.”

Ticked off or brooding from the sounds of it. Riled up, in any case. “You’d better state your preference or you’re going to rack up a hell of a bar tab.”

Alex scowled. “You’re right. The cheaper, the better. Doesn’t matter what it tastes like, so long as it gets the job done. Don’t worry, I’ll order enough.”

Despite the appraising look she gave him, she poured a glass, on the rocks. Alex probably would have preferred it neat. “No offence, but you both” — she included him in the comment — “look like hell.”

Alex claimed the barstool beside him and shot him a curious glance. “She’s got a point.”

“She only said it after she saw your face,” he replied easily.

Alex took a healthy swig from his glass. “Well, I’m here to get drunk, not to chat.”

Jules leaned her weight against the bar. “I hate to deter a paying customer but drowning your sorrows won’t work. Sometimes, it does more good to talk.”

“I could talk about it until I’m blue in the face,” Alex said, “but it won’t change a thing. And if I’m going to be sleeping in my car tonight, I’d rather be drunk when I do it.”

“Have it your way. Just don’t forget to tip your friendly bartender before you’re two sheets to the wind.” She sidled away, to take the next order.

He watched Alex knock back more bourbon. “What’s wrong with your house?”

“It’s overrun by women.”

“Ah.”

“And it’s not my house. I just happen to live there.”

“You and Meghan have a fight?” It seemed like Alex’s luck ran pretty solid there.

“It’s more of a personal space thing. The dog was the last straw.”

“Cocoa?” He hadn’t expected that.

Annoyance drew Alex’s brows together. “The hound mauled my signed baseball.”

She had good taste, then. “Player?”

“The whole team. Blue Jays, 1993 World Series. Collectible.”

He winced in sympathy. “Ouch.”

“Yup. I thought moving in with Megs would help lay the groundwork, let her get used to living together. Before I popped the question.” Alex sighed, brooding into the liquor. “I bought a ring.”

“No way! Congrats, man.” Though he looked less than happy about it.

“Yeah, except now that her sister’s here, that has to wait. And the ring has been burning a hole in my pocket for weeks.” He picked up his drink, narrowed his eyes at it. “My stomach lining too.”

Matt turned a chuckle into a cough. “Nerves?”

“I love Megs. I like living with her. It’s a house full of women I can’t handle. Too many X-chromosomes, and everyone else is always right.” He suddenly sat up straight. “I’m getting one of Jules’ club sandwiches. With all the fixings, hold nothing.”

The skyscraper sandwich was normally stacked high with roasted chicken, strips of bacon, tomato, and lettuce between thin slices of toasted bread. “Can’t beat the food here.” Maybe he’d get one too. He never did eat dinner.

Alex leaned forward to catch Jules’s attention. “Hell, I’m going to get a side of bacon, too.”

Probably a better plan than spending the night drinking cheap liquor.

On the stage, Ben’s fingers flew over the guitar strings, sliding into a whirlwind Celtic reel without pausing or missing a beat.

Matt took a thoughtful sip of his beer. Alex was sharing a house with Charley. Was in on any intel Meghan had on her sister. Chances were good he’d know why Charley had the book, maybe even why she’d lied. Alex had all the info he needed. And he was in the mood to vent. It couldn’t be more perfect. “Grab a booth?” he suggested.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Why not?”

They’d need a table quiet enough for a decent conversation, but loud enough so that they wouldn’t be overheard. Farther from the stage, but not in the back corner. The free booth by the window would work. Matt led the way.

When they’d taken their seats, Alex leaned back. He said in a low, musing voice, “The real kicker, the real” — his mouth twisted — “blow to the ego is that I’m starting to think Charley was right.”

Ready to lend an ear, he asked, “About what?”

“The case. That Kayla didn’t kill her husband. And that” — he tipped his glass at Matt — “is hard to admit.”

Hit a wall while making chocolate and you burned the cacao, maybe ruined a saucepan. Hit a wall in a murder investigation and you let a killer walk free.

He looked at Alex. “If Kayla didn’t do it, who did?”

“That’s the big question, isn’t it?”