Chapter 7

ERIC

I closed my laptop. After three hours of non-stop writing, I'd finally reached the point where Aaron found the dead body in his orchard. Now, I just had to introduce Aaron to the medical examiner and watch the sparks fly.

Sherlock whined and scratched at the back door, pulling me out of my thoughts. I let him outside and then walked across to the kitchen. When he still hadn't returned fifteen minutes later, worry started to creep in, and I went looking for him.

He was probably rolling around in something he'd found under the trees or digging another enormous hole in the backyard. I whistled, hoping the short, sharp burst would distract him from whatever he was doing.

Sherlock woofed and ran around the corner of the cottage. Relief washed over me. "Where have you been?" I asked, sniffing him. At least he didn't smell bad. That was one bonus for the day.

Riley stepped around the edge of the building. With a baseball cap perched on his head and a backpack slung over his shoulder, he looked like he was heading out for the day. He smiled, and an odd feeling of protectiveness sneaked up on me.

I needed to snap out of whatever delusional thoughts were filling my head. For all I knew, Riley wasn't gay. And even if he was, no one in their right mind would want a relationship with a former detective who had a crazy fan stalking him.

Riley nodded toward Sherlock. "Your buddy wants to stay with me, but I'm going into town. Is there anything you need?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine, but thanks for asking."

Riley's eyebrows rose. "You seem a lot happier than you were this morning."

Telling Riley about a person with serious mental health issues recreating the scenes in my books wouldn't make him feel safe. So I settled on something resembling the truth. Hopefully, I never had to tell him what was really happening. "I'm a writer. When you saw me, I was trying to figure out how my hero would find a dead body in his orchard."

Riley grinned. "I take it you don't write romance novels."

It was my turn to smile. "Thrillers."

"Has your hero found the dead body?"

"His dog found it."

Riley looked at Sherlock. "Now I know why you have a dog called Sherlock. Has he helped you find other dead bodies?"

"Not yet. This was his first." I could kick myself. I'd told Riley too much. "I'd appreciate you not telling anyone I'm a writer."

"You don't want everyone to know you kill people for a living?"

I forced a smile. "Something like that. I have to finish my latest book, and there are fewer distractions here."

The smile on his face disappeared. "That must be my cue to leave."

"I don't mean you're a distraction." I stumbled over my apology. "I meant in general terms. At least here, no one knows me." That didn't sound any better than telling Riley he wasn't a distraction.

He must have realized I was digging an even deeper hole for myself. "That's okay, I know what you mean." He adjusted the strap on his bag and patted Sherlock's head. "I'll be gone for about an hour."

As I nodded and called Sherlock to me, my cell phone rang. Riley's mouth tilted into a smile. "It sounds as though civilization has caught up with you."

With a frown, I looked at the number of the person calling me. "You're right. I'll see you when you get back." As I watched Riley leave, I answered the call. "Hi, Alex."

"You won't believe what I've been reading."

"You're supposed to be working on your project."

"I needed a break."

"And your break involves something I'm not going to believe?" I watched Riley reverse down the driveway. I needed to stop thinking about him and write the next scene of my book.

"Are you listening to me?"

I frowned. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"I was looking on the Internet and found an article about Riley. He's considered one of the most up-and-coming artists of the twenty-first century. That's not bad for someone who's only thirty-two. He's exhibited at galleries around the world and even had an exhibition at the Louvre."

I opened my front door, and Sherlock followed me inside. "Sounds impressive."

Alex sighed. "You already knew, didn't you?"

"Riley told me he was an artist. I looked at his website last night, and it listed where he'd exhibited. Can you send me the link to the article you found?"

"I'll email it now. There's something else you need to know. His last three paintings sold for more than fifty thousand dollars each."

My eyes widened. "Are you sure?" I didn't know much about art, but there couldn't be many artists who sell their work for that much money.

"I'm positive. I contacted a friend who works at a gallery in Los Angeles. Riley's one of the most popular artists in America, but no one knows much about him."

I already guessed that he valued his privacy as much as I did.

"Did you know two of his paintings were stolen?"

"I did."

"There was a lot of hype about who was behind the burglary, but no one's been arrested."

"What kind of hype?" I didn't know whether I was impressed or worried about the amount of time Alex must have spent looking for information about Riley.

"I'll send you another article. The Italian police are looking at a mafia connection to the burglary."

The coffeepot banged against the kitchen counter. "What kind of articles were you reading?"

"I know," Alex said. "It sounds like something out of your novels, except it's true. What if Riley left Venice because he's worried the burglars will come back? There were three paintings in his studio, but only two were stolen."

I looked through the kitchen window. Sunrise Bay had become a magnet for people on the run. "How do you know he'd finished three paintings?"

"The reporter said there were three."

"You know what the media are like. They could have been lying." I'd been placed in the center of more than one false story. And no matter what I said, most people believed what they read. "If Riley's life was in danger, he wouldn't come to Sunrise Bay."

"Why not?"

"It's too remote."

Alex snorted. "That's why most of us are here. You might want to let him know about the articles. If I found them, someone else could too."

"I'll talk to him when he gets back from town."

"Good. I'd better keep working. I'll see you at six o'clock."

"Bye." I left my phone on the counter and opened my laptop. Any discussion with Riley about his paintings wouldn't end well. If he'd come here to keep a low profile, it might have just backfired.