When Sloane woke the following day, the house was silent. This is how she liked her life, quiet and alone with a nonspeaking cat. A carafe of fresh coffee and a few hours to plan her day. She set the teakettle on a burner and scooped coffee into the French press. She had rescheduled yesterday’s meeting with Quinn Reed to this morning, but first, she needed to track down Garcia. The case would crack if there was a call from a Canadian number on Morris’s phone records. Of course, he could have used a burner, but there was a chance the initial call came to his regular phone.
And where was Chen? She was not complaining, but she’d never had to wait for more than a day or two for her information. Unless Jacobson had found out. No. Chen would have given her a heads-up.
The teakettle whistled and interrupted her thoughts. After several cups of black coffee and an unsuccessful attempt to get Katie Chen on the phone, Sloane walked to Quinn Reed’s office. She breathed in the sharp medical air and approached the check-in counter. Quinn’s receptionist was on the phone. She was an older woman dressed impeccably, with silver-gray hair in a blunt cut below a strong jawline. When Sloane called to reschedule, she had squeezed her in between Quinn’s morning and afternoon patients. But she had not sounded pleased to do it. She hung up the phone, and Sloane coughed.
“Yes. I am aware you are there, Ms. West. Thank you for being on time.” It was the same snippy voice she used the day before. “Dr. Reed will be with you in a moment.”
Sloane walked around the waiting room and stopped at a sculpture of an owl in flight. Its magnificent wings were spread wide and talons flexed, with its powerful beak open as if its prey were directly below it.
Quinn finally appeared. He had a nice build and was a little shorter than Sloane. His once-blond hair was giving way to silver-white that offset his blue eyes handsomely. She thought Lore must have inherited her brown hair and eyes from her mother because she didn’t favor James or her brother.
He extended his hand. “Hello, Ms. West. We finally meet.” His palms were sweaty, and his forehead glistened.
“Hi, Dr. Reed. Thanks for seeing me. I know you’re a busy man.”
“Not too busy to meet Jane’s daughter.” He stared at her from head to toe and back. “My God, it’s like visiting the past.” His eyes darted to his receptionist. She was busy on the computer. “I’m sorry for not introducing myself at the repast. I didn’t think it was the right time.” He smiled. “You’ve met Betty Stewart. She opened the clinic with me. Hopefully, she’ll stay until I retire. I’d be lost without her. She runs the place. Right, Betty? Didn’t I say Ms. West and her mother looked like twins?” He rambled and coughed into his fist.
Betty nodded without looking up. “Yes, you did, Dr. Reed. Your next patient is at one o’clock. Time’s ticking.”
“See what I mean?” He raised his hands. “Would you like a cup of coffee? We could go to my favorite café?”
Sloane glanced at her watch. “Somewhere close, I hope. You’re down to fifty-two minutes.”
Betty looked up at them.
Quinn gave an awkward laugh. “It’s not as fancy as a Manhattan coffee house. But it’s the best on the Island and right down the street.”
Old Main was busy with lunchtime shoppers, a helpful diversion for both of them. They crossed the street and walked past Lore’s flower shop. Sloane broke the silence. “Seems Mrs. Stewart’s upset about something. Did I offend her?”
“No, of course not. Betty’s my mother-in-law, a real lioness, always piqued around strangers.”
“If you don’t mind, Dr. Reed—”
“Please call me Quinn.”
“All right. And you can call me Sloane.” She glanced at her watch. “I only have fifty minutes with you. So I’ll be direct. I’m here to find who hired Harold’s killer.”
“I know. My father told me.” He stopped before the gallery and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I only hope I can help.”
She studied his face. “Did you know Jane lived in New York after she ran away?”
Quinn looked down. “I had no idea. I didn’t even know Jane had had you or that she had died.” He paused. “I wish I’d known before it was too late. I considered your mom my best friend when we were growing up.”
“Have you ever visited New York?”
He lifted his head, and his charming smile faded. “No. And I don’t know anyone who lives there either. Believe me, I could never hurt Harold or you.” He stared into the dark gallery. “I’m so sorry you experienced such a terrifying attack.” He turned back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Liam Morris isn’t the first perp to stick a gun in my face. And Harold Huxham isn’t the first innocent person I’ve seen killed in cold blood.”
“Mother of God, I’m so sorry.” He met her eyes and held them for the first time. “Harold was a great guy. But you probably figured that out. Your mom, Ken, Charlie, and I always hung out at the Huxham’s house. Harold stocked his cupboards with the best junk food. And he left us alone. It wasn’t just lack of supervision that made it so good. He treated us with respect. Gave us privacy.”
People sat at umbrellaed tables outside the coffee shop. Quinn opened the door. “Welcome to The Grind.”
Sloane stepped inside and breathed in a smoky, herby aroma. People chattered. Bursts of steam hissed from the espresso machine. Her muscles relaxed. It was like a busy coffee house in the Bronx. Once served, Sloane followed Quinn outside and sat at an open table. She sipped her brew. “Mmm. You weren’t kidding. This is smooth.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He poured two creams into his cup and tore open two sugar packets.
She stared at him. “Wait. Don’t do that.” The sugar went into Quinn’s cup. “Ugh. How do you live with yourself debasing excellent coffee with cream and sugar?”
Quinn laughed. “A purist, eh? This is a regular coffee here.”
“I’m hardly a purist. I just don’t think we should complicate a good thing.”
He stared at her, the lines around his eyes softening. “You remind me so much of your mother. It’s more than looks. She was witty and tough, too.”
Sloane sipped her coffee. Jane was funny, on the rare occasions she expressed it. But she had never considered Jane strong.
“I’m sorry. Talking about your mom must be painful.”
“I’m fine,” Sloane said. “I do want to change the subject, though. Do you know why your father’s fish market is in financial trouble?”
“Trouble? He could be doing better, but it’s hardly going under. I know why you’re asking, and I agree money is a compelling motive for murder. My dad’s cantankerous, but he’s not a killer.”
“Actually, I’m more interested to know if you thought the market’s profitability, or even lack thereof, has anything to do with your dad’s behavior toward Isobel Gildey at Harold’s repast. His conduct surpassed cranky.”
Quinn shook his head. “Well, my dad has a temper. Ever since Isobel took over the Gildeys’ businesses when Sean died, Dad has blamed her for everything that goes wrong in Old Denwick. It’s nonsense. His problem is that he hasn’t moved with the times. He doesn’t advertise. He could double his sales.”
“Lore told me the same thing. How about your practice? Are you profitable?” She waited for Quinn to react, but her question didn’t faze him.
“I’d say. We’re busy enough for a second doctor. Amy, my wife, has family money as well. My mother-in-law doesn’t work for me because she has to.” He chuckled. “I’ve been trying to buy my building and the building next to us for a pharmacy. The closest one is in Mill Bay or a drive-thru in New Denwick. We want to provide a closer, personal option for our Old Denwick families.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The Gildeys. They own the land and the building. It used to be a real estate office run by Sean Gildey’s aunt. It closed three decades ago. But they refuse to rent or sell.”
“That’s very unneighborly of them. I don’t know the Gildeys, but even at Harold’s repast, it seemed they throw a lot of weight around.” Sloane sipped her coffee. “What’s James accusing Isobel of doing?”
He tapped his coffee cup on the tabletop. “The Gildeys began the European salmon industry here. They pretend to have sovereignty over the waterways. Fishing rights. But of course, they ignore that they stole the waterways in the first place.”
“Yeah, well, every nonindigenous person in North America has that on their hands.” Sloane crossed her arms on the table.
Quinn nodded. “My dad says Isobel is forcing the smaller fishers out of business, and that’s why his overhead has increased. His suppliers charge more because they have less.”
“I see. So Isobel really could put him out of business.”
“Especially if she develops more fish markets in New Denwick. That’s the way of a free market, I guess. But Lore and I won’t let that happen to him.”
“James is lucky to have a son and daughter like you.” Sloane watched a young couple sit at the table behind Quinn. They hadn’t let go of each other’s hands. She looked at Quinn. He resembled Jacobson. And she wondered if he and Jane had been more than best friends. “Back when they were young, did the Gildeys have Harold in their crosshairs?”
“Not a chance. They associated with different people.”
“I suppose they did.” Sloane sat back. “Do you know any of the other original families? The ones in the crypt?”
“I can’t say I do, besides the Keanes.” He blinked hard and looked toward his office. “I’ll need to head back now. Do you have any other questions?”
“Yeah, about a million.” She set her cup down. “But for this case, just a few more.”
“I’ll try to answer anything.” He pushed back in his chair. “Would you like to walk back with me?”
Sloane pulled her tote’s strap over her head and got to her feet. “Do you know if Harold and Charles were having problems?”
“With each other?” Quinn thought for a moment. “When Charlie was young, he worked hard to make Harold proud. But when he came back from uni, they fought a lot. It wasn’t Harold’s fault, though. Charlie made it hard for him.”
“Alcohol and gambling?”
“You have done your homework.”
“Yeah. It’s my job,” Sloane said. “Do you think Charles could hurt his uncle?”
He sighed. “There was a time I thought I knew Charlie, and the idea of him killing Harold for money would be ludicrous. But that was a long time ago. Now I’m not too sure.”
They crossed to the other side of Old Main. “Yeah. I get it,” Sloane said and swigged the last of her coffee, throwing the cup in a bin. “Are you and Charles still friends?”
“We’re friendly. But I wouldn’t say we’re friends. But Lore and Charles are still close. I don’t know why. She even went to New York with him to identify Harold.” He made a face. “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with her.”
His outburst surprised Sloane.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just get angry. I can’t understand what she sees in him.”
“Are you sure Charles is the puppet master? I heard it was the other way around.”
Quinn stopped beside a market with fruits and vegetables displayed outside. “Who fed you that load of crap? I was there when Lore and Charlie started dating. Lore never hung out with us before they did. She stayed home, her nose in a book. It was nice having her around, even if she was there because of him. Then one night, she came home, broken. He dumped her the night before he left for uni. After that, she was never the same.”
“Just because they broke up?”
“He probably cheated on her, too.”
“That’s a big assumption,” Sloane said.
“Well, he’s guilty about something. She’s given him grief for three decades, and he lets her.”
They walked, passing a lunch crowd outside the Spotted Owl. “Were you and your dad furious with him for messing with Lore?”
“No. I didn’t hold a grudge. We’ve all had relationships go bad. I’ve always been a bit upset with Lore for hanging around Charlie and not moving on. But my father never forgave him.” Quinn tossed his cup in a bin. “He and Harold even had a few rows over it. I’m not sure why Dad couldn’t let it go. Maybe it’s too hard to see your daughter heartbroken.”
Sloane stopped and looked across the street at the West Gallery. “So I own that entire building now.”
“Every inch,” Quinn said. They walked on. “You can do whatever you want with it. But you’ll need the Main Street Commerce Committee’s approval for any changes.” Quinn stopped in front of the clinic door.
“One more question, if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you know why Jane ran away?”
The question caught him off guard, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve asked myself that question for many years. That summer, she seemed happy. Happier than I’d ever seen her.” Betty appeared on the other side of the door before he finished. “She was dating a guy in Vancouver and took the ferry twice a week to see him. I provided cover.”
“She didn’t want anyone to know who her boyfriend was?”
Quinn shook his head. “I don’t know why.”
Betty opened the door. “Dr. Reed. Your one o’clock is here.”
Quinn looked at Sloane apologetically.
“All right. I appreciate you talking with me. Is it okay if we chat again?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Coffee’s on me.”
* * *
A couple entered the Spotted Owl ahead of Sloane and held open the door for her. She nodded, too busy thinking about Jane to speak. Everyone remembered her fondly and described her as an intelligent, happy, beautiful girl. Why would she give up so much and run away?
The pub seemed dimmer than usual, and Sloane needed a moment to adjust her eyes. Ken was behind the bar serving draft beers to a couple of men in chest-high waders. He turned his head toward the entry and smiled. “Aye. Here’s a fine lass.”
“Hey. How’s it going?” Sloane asked.
“Cannae compleen. Hou ar ye?”
“I’m doing okay. Could use a shot of whiskey. How about Oscar’s brand? Neat.” She peeked over the counter. “You need to put your foot down and don the kilt for the pub’s sake.”
Ken laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll not win that battle.” He filled a measure twice and slid the glass across the bar. “Rose is in the back. Should I fetch her?”
“I was hoping to talk to you first, if you don’t mind.”
“Aye. I’m here to help ye.”
“I just had a coffee with Quinn Reed. And he seems to think Jane had a secret boyfriend.”
Ken held up his hand. Then he turned to the fisherman. “You lot go on and sit at a table. Rose will be right out with your lunches.” The two men grumbled, taking their pints and leaving the bar. Ken leaned closer to Sloane. “I wondered when you’d ask about the boyfriend.” His Scottish accent disappeared. “Your mum told me very little about him, not even his name. He was at uni. I think UBC. She was still at her boarding school. She sneaked away a couple times during the week to visit him. Natty and Mary thought she was tutoring Quinn.”
“Tutoring?”
“Aye. Quinn was her cover.” Ken straightened and polished the bar. “Your mum was in love. But she refused to tell me who he was.” He stopped, and his sad eyes held hers. “I should’ve told Natty and Mary what I knew when she didn’t come back after her holiday. I mean, if you’re in love, and you can’t tell your best friend his name, something’s not right, right? I don’t know why I didn’t tell them.”
“Do you think her leaving had something to do with the boyfriend?”
“I’ve just always had a gut feeling it did.” He lowered his head.
Sloane reached out and laid her hand on top of his. “Listen, it’s not your fault. Jane lied. Not you.”
“Aye, but I kept her secret, and the truth could have helped your grandparents find her.”
“You didn’t have a choice, trust me.” Sloane patted his hand and released it. “Can I ask you another question?” The fishermen held up their pints and hollered for two more.
“Keep the heid!” Ken shouted back.
Rose delivered the fishermen their lunch plates and joined Sloane at the bar. She pushed her father toward the draft faucets. “Go on, old man, you have other customers to bug.”
“Aye. I’m gaunnae. Why don’t you lasses grab a table? Lunch is on me.” He poured two ales and walked away.
Rose closed her eyes and shook her head while untying her apron. “He loves putting on a show for you. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, sure. I haven’t eaten,” answered Sloane.
“Great. Chef’s special is a traditional Québécois dish today. You’ll love it.” Rose walked around the bar. “Dad, a couple of specials and two pie slices when you get a minute.”
Sloane followed her to a table tucked away in a corner. The blinds on the street-level windows were closed. “Are we hiding from someone? Or do you want your dad to get more exercise?”
“A little of both,” Rose answered. “My parents are notorious eavesdroppers. They can hear anything said in this room unless you’re back here with music playing and you’re whispering.”
“And you know this from experience?”
Rose flashed Sloane a grin, pulled a remote from her back pocket and turned up the volume on an airy, slow, and mournful Gaelic tune. Then she leaned closer to Sloane. “How’s your case? Any leads?”
“Trying to sort out information right now.”
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yeah. I was about to ask your dad what he knows about the other original Denwick families.”
Rose thought for a minute. “I’m not even sure who the others are. Why?”
“Lore said the Keane and Reed families were friends right from the village’s beginning. I’m just wondering if there were other friends.”
Rose looked toward the bar. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“That’s my job, right?” Rose smiled and tucked a loose curl into her blue headband.
Sloane stared into her eyes, unable to look away.
“What did you find out about Charles?” Rose asked.
“His bookie works out of Chinatown.” Sloane dug around in her tote for her phone. She scrolled through her pictures and enlarged one of Gannon Ferris. “Is this the guy Charles brought into the bar?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s him. He was at the repast, too.”
“Yeah, I saw him there. His name is Gannon Ferris.”
Rose mulled over the name. “Never heard of him.”
“He denied ever being in Denwick, except for Harold’s repast.”
“Well, he lied. He’s been here in the pub.”
“I know. He had a poker face when I told him someone from the Island ordered Harold’s murder. But when I said we knew Charles needed money to pay back a debt, and I knew the debt was to him, he blinked.”
“I thought you said you worked alone?”
“I do. I can’t be responsible for what he assumes.” Sloane swirled the whiskey around in her glass.
“So what happens next?”
“I wait and see. But I won’t be waiting long. The news that the police consider him a suspect in Harold’s murder provoked him.”
“What if he tries to hurt you?” Rose whispered.
“I’m not afraid of Gannon Ferris.”
Rose lowered her eyes and stared at Sloane’s neck. “Turn your head.” She ran her fingers along the cut below Sloane’s ear. “Did he do this to you?”
Her fingertips made Sloane’s skin shiver. Heat radiated from her core and rose to her face. “Not him. One of his men made the mistake of jumping me.”
Ken walked across the back-dining area. “Sorry to interrupt, but lunch is served.”
Rose pulled her hand back and smiled. “Thanks, Dad.” When Ken was out of earshot, she fumed, “Did he try to kill you?”
“Nah. He only wanted to scare me. Make me drop my investigation. He was a lousy muscle.”
Rose stared at the two-inch wound and bit her lip.
“Hey, up here.” Sloane snapped her fingers.
Rose looked up and into her eyes. “You need to carry a gun.”
“Trust me, Keane. I don’t need a weapon.”
“Why not?”
Sloane inhaled the aromas of her lunch. “Mmm, cinnamon. What is it?”
“It’s slow-braised pork shoulder tourtiére. Chef also made a Saskatoon berry pie for dessert. You ignored my question. Why don’t you need a weapon?”
“I can’t tell you why. And I’m not going to lie to you.” Sloane forked into the tourtiére. “What makes it a traditional Quebec dish?”
“It’s Québecois, not Quebec.”
Sloane ate another mouthful while Rose pushed food around her plate. “I’m telling you the truth, Keane. I can’t tell you. And I hope you’ll accept that.”
Rose chewed silently.
“Well, whatever makes it a Québecois dish is delicious. Savory. Reminds me of the holidays.”
“It is popular during the holidays,” Rose said and took another bite.
They ate in silence until Sloane scooted her empty plate to the side. If Rose didn’t want to participate in small talk, she would return to business. “Listen, I wanted to let you know my contact in New York is checking financials and phone records for me.” Sloane glanced toward the bar. “She’s checking the pub’s accounts.”
Rose put her fork down and narrowed her eyes. “Why? You don’t think my parents had something to do with Harold’s murder?”
Sloane sat back. “I just thought you wanted to know—”
“Forget it,” Rose said, interrupting. “Forget I mentioned anything about my mother. We don’t need to be a part of your investigation.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Rose looked at her phone. “I need to get back to work.” She stood and picked up Sloane’s plate. “I’ll wrap your pie to go. You can pick it up at the bar on your way out.”