Chapter 5

The Otter Slide was busy that night. Under the green-and-gold pendants, the booths were full, and every table had bodies crammed around it. More people packed the bar—along with pretty much every other square inch of floor space.

For the most part, those people were locals—the Otter Slide didn’t have the quaint, seaside-dollhouse aesthetic that so many tourists were looking for. But some of these people were out-of-towners, if only because the Otter Slide was the closest thing to a gay bar in Hastings Rock. Voices competed with the music (Seely, the bar’s owner, had declared tonight to be country night, and “Jolene” was playing at full volume over the bar’s speakers), and men and women laughed and shouted and called out drink orders and, in one case, screamed (a busty young lady who had gotten particularly excited over her latest round at the pinball machine). The air smelled like the nectar of the gods (marinara sauce, fried cheese, and of course, Seely’s hamburgers, which somehow the cook managed to do just perfectly, smashed thin on the griddle, with extra crispy edges), and I was enjoying a surprisingly delicious summer highball—some sort of variation with a hint of peach, courtesy of Bobby.

Bobby was also the reason we had managed to snag a booth—he’d been watching the other patrons like a hawk, which was one of his God-given talents, and as soon as a group of them got up, Bobby swooped in. It was a tight fit, with Bobby and Fox and me on one side, and Keme, Millie, and Indira on the other. But, if I was being honest, Keme didn’t look like the close quarters were bothering him too much.

“They’re DEFINITELY hiding something,” Millie announced.

I managed not to roll my eyes, but only because Keme was giving me a death ray-level warning look. “Right, of course they’re hiding something. The question is: what?”

Millie perked right up. She was practically vibrating with excitement. “A SECRET!”

The tourists in the next booth turned around. A guy with a wispy attempt at a mustache stared, his mouth hanging open.

I gave the group a little wave, and slowly, they turned back to their drinks.

That was when Keme kicked me.

“Ow! What did I do?”

But he just scowled at me.

“It’s all very strange,” Fox said as though nothing had happened. “And the case against Vivienne certainly seems thin. Any defense lawyer worth their salt should be able to create reasonable doubt. I mean, Richard’s relationship with his wife should be enough all on its own—the ongoing arguments, their fight the night of the murder, the fact that she was having an affair.”

“Was she having the affair with Neil?” Indira asked.

I blinked. “That possibility hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re married,” Millie said.

I blinked again. In the background, Dolly was begging Jolene not to steal her man. “Neil and—what’s her name? Jane?”

Millie nodded.

“They’re not married,” I said. “Neil and Vivienne were married, but they got divorced. And Richard and Jane were married, but Richard died.”

“No, Neil and Jane are married NOW.” She held up her phone. “They’re old, so they put everything on Facebook.”

I snatched the phone from her—which, I noted in my peripheral vision, earned me another dark look from Keme—and studied the screen. It was Neil Carver’s Facebook page, and sure enough, it showed that he’d married Jane Lundgren Carver in 1990.

“Five years after Richard disappeared,” I said.

“After he died,” Bobby said. He frowned. “That’s strange.”

Indira frowned. “I’m not sure it is. After all, Candy told you that the four of them were all close in high school. Vivienne had moved away. Richard was gone. I don’t think it’s all that unusual for two people who were already close and both dealing with different kinds of loss to find comfort in each other.”

Millie shot up in her seat again. “OR THEY KILLED HIM TOGETHER!”

“Usually, we try not to sound so gleeful,” I muttered with another apologetic wave for the people in the next booth. Wispy Mustache Guy had spilled his drink on himself.

“That certainly seems like a possibility,” Fox said, “but why? I mean, if they were having an affair and wanted to be together, Jane could have divorced Richard and married Neil. It was the 1980s, not the 1880s.”

“An argument,” I said. “Candy told us Richard and Jane were fighting constantly. They had a fight the night Richard disappeared. Jane left the house that night, according to Candy, but maybe when she came back, the fight picked up again and got out of hand.”

Keme said, “Or he did it.”

“That’s a good point,” Indira said. “It’s equally likely that Richard argued with Neil about the affair. Like you said, Dash, things might have escalated. He certainly seems to have stepped into Richard’s life—the jewelry, the house, the wife.”

“Except there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of a physical altercation,” Bobby said. “Remember? The medical examiner didn’t find anything.”

Waving the words away, Fox said, “She poisoned him. A little antifreeze in his coffee every morning.”

“Aren’t we forgetting someone?” Bobby waited, and when no one spoke, he said, “We’ve already got a suspect we know is guilty of multiple homicides. I’m not saying that automatically makes her guilty, but she’s got to be a consideration.”

I shrugged. “I know, but I can’t figure out why Vivienne would ask me to investigate if she’s the one who killed Richard. I mean, why not leave it alone? Or let the police investigate and try to build a case? It’s not like it’s going to matter one way or another, with the sentences she’s already facing.”

“I think it does matter, though,” Indira said. “I’m not saying it means Vivienne’s innocent, but Vivienne cared—cares—deeply about her appearance. I don’t think she was exaggerating when she said she didn’t want to be known as a kin slayer.”

“Plus, she might want revenge,” Millie said. “Oh, Dash, maybe she wants revenge on you too, and THIS IS PART OF THE PLAN!”

“Uh, thanks, Millie. I hadn’t considered that terrifying possibility yet.”

Keme pushed his hair behind his ears and said, “What about the dad?”

Bobby and I looked at each other.

“That lady, the sister, she told you the dad got sick,” Keme said. “Maybe he needed the money.”

“I think that was later,” I said slowly. “Candy was talking about Vivienne by that point, about how she’d never share her money. But you might be on to something. He definitely didn’t like that we were looking at the slough. And he was eavesdropping on the conversation.”

Bobby made a face. “I should have thought of that. It wasn’t until Candy brought him up in the conversation that he interrupted, and then he couldn’t get us out of there fast enough.”

“You know who I think did it?” Millie said. She waited, and I could tell she was working up to something, but even so, I wasn’t prepared for the sheer magnitude of: “CANDY!”

In the next booth, a glass shattered. (Kidding.)

“They’re sisters, right?” Millie said. “And it sounds like Candy is SUPER jealous of Vivienne, like, her success and everything. AND—” She even held up a finger. “—she was eager to insert herself in the investigation so she could tell you bad stuff about everyone else, which is what some killers do because they want attention. I saw that on TV when Fox made me watch that show with all the widows who were killing each other.”

“I have no idea what that was,” Fox said, “but I want to watch it again.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, Millie said, “AND Candy had opportunity, in terms of the murder. She lived right next door to Richard, and she was home the night he disappeared. And Dash, you always say that if we can establish opportunity, then we consider the person a suspect and look for motive.”

“I do?” I asked.

“There was definitely something off about her,” Bobby said.

“The kimono,” I said.

“She has a lot of resentment—”

“The nail polish.”

“—and she was quick to blame Vivienne—”

“Oh, and she fell instantly in love with Bobby. So, zero gaydar.”

“—but her explanation for why she believes it was Vivienne is pretty weak.” Bobby turned in his seat. “Do you want to go over that last part again?”

I grinned and shook my head.

“She fell in love with you?” Millie actually clasped her hands. “That’s so sweet!”

“Bobby doesn’t show up on gaydar,” Fox said. “He’s not even a blip. Oh, except when I saw him snogging that little powderpuff on the boardwalk the other day. Was that Kiefer?”

“No,” Bobby said, and I thought a little color came into his cheeks, “and—”

“It’s the way he walks,” Keme said.

“Oh my God,” Millie said. “It IS the way he walks. AND HIS HAIR.”

“His hair—” I tried.

At the same time, Bobby said, “My hair—”

“And his jeans,” Fox said. “Marvelous hind end, but sometimes it’s like a pair of bowling balls swimming around in a denim sack.”

“What is happening?” Bobby said, mostly to himself.

“Just let it wash over you,” I said. “They wear themselves out eventually.” In a louder voice—to our alleged friends—I said, “Bobby shows up just fine on gaydar, thank you very much. And for your information, it’s fine for some gay guys, like us, to present as more traditionally masculine.”

Silence.

A single, nervously high giggle escaped Millie before she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Keme pulled up his hood and appeared to die quietly of secondhand embarrassment.

Fox fixed their gaze in the middle distance.

But worst of all was Indira, who stretched across the table to PAT MY HAND.

And Bobby looked like he was dedicating all his considerable skill to keeping his face expressionless.

“Are you guys kidding me?” I asked.

“Don’t answer that,” Bobby said in what sounded like his official deputy voice. Then his face changed, and he pulled out his phone. He read whatever was on the screen and said something that they definitely don’t teach you in preschool, and then he nudged me to let him out of the booth.

“What’s up?” I asked as I slid out.

“I forgot,” he said. “I’m late.”

“Forgot what?”

“IS IT ANOTHER DATE?” Millie asked.

The music changed. It was Taylor Swift, which I felt was a stretch for Country Night, but I was too focused on Bobby’s sudden departure to notice which song.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Bobby said. He gave the back of my head a quick scruff, almost pulling me into a hug, and then, with a wave for everyone else, he darted toward the door.

As I settled back into the booth, Fox said, “He’s certainly in a hurry.”

“Millie’s right,” I said. “Probably another hot date with another new guy. And we’ll have to pretend to remember his name. And then, in another week, it’ll be someone else.”

Indira and Fox exchanged looks. Millie and Keme exchanged looks.

“What?” I asked.

Indira patted my hand again and said to Fox, “Could you give me a ride home?”

“Of course,” Fox said. “Keme?”

The boy glanced at Millie, but she shook her head. “I’ve got to get home and pack up a couple of pieces I sold on Etsy.”

Keme cocked his head.

“No, I don’t need any help,” Millie answered. “But thank you.”

Keme looked like he was scrambling to come up with another, equally valid reason they should spend more time together.

With a little breath of a laugh, Fox caught his arm and said, “Come on.”

The four of them left after settling up, and I paid my tab—and Bobby’s, which was totally fair since if you counted all the donuts he brought me, I owed him a lot of money. I thought about ordering another drink—a gimlet, maybe. The thought surprised me, since it was one of those old-fashioned drinks that I associated with Chandler and Hammett and the like. At one point in my life, those had been my drinks of choice, but since moving to Hastings Rock, I’d found myself…branching out.

Only now, for some reason, a gimlet was on my mind. A noir drink for a noir night, I thought, which sounded too melodramatic even for me—but also, true. Because to my own surprise, my mood had soured. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but it had. I thought about the look on Bobby’s face when he read the message on his phone. The way he’d bumped his hip against mine to get me moving out of the booth. Those strong fingers running through my hair—the gesture playful, but also familiar. Maybe I did know why, I thought. Maybe that’s why I wanted a gimlet.

Instead, though, I did the responsible thing: I got in the Jeep and started home. The night was chilly and damp, and although the sky was clear, I already knew the fog belt would be thick, and driving home meant heading straight into a world that became directionless, claustrophobic, a thousand shifting currents of gray that sparked to life in the headlights, with only the occasional silhouette of Sitka spruce and lodgepole pine to anchor the world. Normally, I loved the coast and the cool weather and the fog. It activated that innermost, geekiest part of me that loved haunted mansions and crumbling castles and, yes, werewolves and vampires. And maybe the moors? But maybe that was just because I had a crush on Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights .

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t notice Bobby’s Pilot until I was driving past it. The SUV was parked in the gravel lot of an apartment complex—in the dark, it was hard to tell the color of the shiplap siding, but it was blue or gray or blue-gray or something that might have been called “pewter tankard” on a paint swatch. The complex was only a few buildings, all of them unremarkable. I’d driven past them countless times on my way to and from Hastings Rock, and I’d never given them a second look. Until now. When Bobby’s car was parked there.

He's on a date, I thought. And my body’s reaction was a flush that sent pins and needles to my chest, my neck, my face. I didn’t even have to think about what kind of date it was. Or why Bobby had been in such a hurry. Or why he’d already be at the other guy’s apartment. I mean, not that I was a prude. I’d hooked up with strangers before. Okay, I’d thought about hooking up with strangers before. Okay, I would have hooked up with strangers, except the one time I tried, I got so nervous that I had to pull over and puke on the side of the road, and I ended up messaging the guy (because of course I did, because I couldn’t just ghost him) and telling him I couldn’t, um, do adult stuff with him because I’d just watched Jurassic Park III and I was upset about how bad it had been.

But it was totally fine for Bobby to hook up with somebody. Anybody. Whoever he wanted. However many he wanted. Whenever he wanted. Even if the, um, booty call came when he was hanging out with friends. And trying to solve a murder. And I mean, it was totally fine for Bobby to do whatever he wanted, but was he even being safe? Not, like, that way. But if these were total strangers, shouldn’t he be telling someone where he was going? What if they were axe murderers? What if they wanted to turn Bobby into a sock puppet? And if this guy wasn’t a total stranger, then couldn’t Bobby say something like, Hey, tonight I’m hanging out with Dash and the gang because I haven’t been spending enough time with them and they’re my best friends?

If you asked me, I’d say that’s a sign of a toxic relationship, when your new boyfriend won’t let you spend any time with your old friends.

Oh my God.

Did Bobby have a boyfriend?

Believe it or not, all of this went through my brain in about half a second. Which was perfect timing because a moment later, Bobby, another man, and a woman stepped out of one of the ground-floor apartments, and I almost drove off the road. I only caught a glimpse of them: the man looked young, blond, and ridiculously cute in a tee and jean shorts. The woman was older, with darker hair—maybe honey blond, I wanted to say, although it was hard to tell as she stepped away from the porch light. They were laughing about something, and as I watched, Bobby put his arm around the blond man’s shoulders. The woman said something, and the blond beamed. The woman said something again, and this time, Bobby shook her hand. She said something that made them all laugh again as she pulled him into a hug.

And then I was past them, and then a moment later, I was past the apartment building, and I couldn’t even see them in my rearview mirror. All I could see was myself, and the dark, and the empty road behind me, red with my taillights.