CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Luca expected to hit that overflow of traffic that came at dusk, the one after people got home from work and realized their freezers were empty. But Yamhill seemed to be an exception to many rules, including that one. So here he was, rolling down an empty Stark Street on the hunt for a white Camaro.

The street didn't offer much in the way of scenery. It was a long stretch of road flanked by trees, fences and dirt patches. If it didn't twist and turn so much, Amanda Krafton's white Camaro would stand out like a peacock among pigeons. But halfway through his fourth mental recitation of every curse word he knew, there it was. Gleaming like a pearl in a pig trough, parked half on the curb and half in a ditch.

Luca pulled up in front, killed the engine. He hauled himself out, sauntered over and gave the Camaro a quick once-over. Up close, the car looked almost tragically out of place. It was pristine. Gleaming. Loved, even. Which only served to make the whole tableau that much sadder. Somewhere out there was a husband who'd never buff that chrome again. Never twist the dial on that custom sound system until the bass made his molars buzz.

He scanned the interior. Seats, dash, a scattering of fast food wrappers on the passenger floorboards. Nothing jumped out as hinky. Then again, he wasn't exactly expecting a blood-spattered 'I Did It!' sign in the back window. No blood inside, which meant Amanda wasn't killed in here. Exterior was the same too, save for a parking ticket taped to the windshield.

Then the meter maid – no doubt the same woman who'd reported the car – chirped from behind. ‘This your ride, mister?'

Luca spun around. The woman had 'city employee' written all over her, from the bored slouch to the smoke-stained fingers. He flashed his most disarming grin and said, ‘Not quite.'

The meter maid nodded, slow, like her head was on a delay. Her eyes flicked from Luca to the Camaro and back again. ‘She in trouble? Only I seen this fancy ass ride parked here goin' on eight hours now. Racking up fines like nobody's business.'

A pause then as he debated just how much to spill. Honesty was all well and good, but in his experience, too much truth in a town like this led to rumors. ‘The owner passed away last night. I'm just here to see what's what before we contact the next of kin.'

The meter maid's face went slack in that way unique to those confronted with unexpected mortality. Like they'd just taken a peek behind the curtain and hadn't much liked what they'd seen.

She mumbled some platitude or another, the kind of rote 'sorry for your loss' that held about as much water as a plug nickel. Then she cocked her head, and the light of prurient interest sparked in her eyes. Luca swallowed a sigh. Here it came, the busybody nosiness that seemed to afflict half the population in these kinds of towns.

‘You ask me, whoever parked this thing probably ducked into one of them shops. Folks around here, they're always pulling that stunt. Leave the car on the curb, dash in for smokes or lotto scratchers. Figure they'll be in and out before anyone's the wiser.'

Luca glanced at the shabby awnings, the smeared windows. She had a point. This stretch of Stark Street didn't exactly look like a high-traffic area for a lady like Amanda Krafton. But it was just close enough to the town center to be convenient. A quick stop, there and gone.

Only she'd never made it back to her car.

Getting warmer, Hawkins.

‘Sounds about right,' he said. ‘Folks are always looking for the shortcut. Which shops, exactly?'

‘Top of the street, take a right. A row of ‘em.'

‘Much appreciated. I might have to take a look inside this car, so if you hear an alarm, it's my fault.'

The woman took a step back but shamelessly kept her eyes on him. Luca guessed this was going to be the highlight of her week, maybe her year.

Time to get personal. He gave the handle a perfunctory tug, just in case the universe felt like tossing him a freebie.

No luck. As expected.

He fished a thin strip of metal from the inner pocket of his coat and slipped it between the window and the chrome. A little trick Miss Key Expert, aka Ella Dark, had taught him. He jiggled it, feeling for the catch. These older models, they were cake to jimmy. Just had to have the right touch.

The lock popped and Luca slid into the driver's seat, the smell of stale air freshener and cloying perfume tickling his nose. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, stretched to cover his wrists. No need to muck up any potential evidence with his own grimy paw prints.

He tossed the glovebox, pawed through the center console. A handful of ketchup packets, some tissues, a few stray CD's that looked like they'd been trapped there since the '90s. Nothing that screamed murderous madman or imperiled dame.

The back seat was more of the same. Candy wrappers, a gym bag that smelled alarmingly clean. Luca guessed ‘going to the gym' was just a cover story for Amanda to escape the house given her husband's possessiveness. Luca was about to chalk it up as a well-meant bust when a glint of something metallic caught his eye. It was wedged in the crevice between the cushions.

He snagged it and pulled it free like a scrap of meat from between teeth. A key. Small, bronze. The kind that might open a diary or a strongbox. Luca turned it between gloved fingers as a niggle wormed at his brain.

Dummy, his inner Ella chided. Think it through.

Husband had a jealous streak wider than the Mississippi. Old lady starts sneaking around, joining extracurricular writing groups and no doubt catching the eye of whatever broody Byron type made a habit of scribbling 'Nevermore' in the margins.

Amanda Krafton would have had to play it cagey, keep her secret squirrel business out of eagle-eyed hubby's line of sight.

So where would a clever girl stash her contraband?

Never in the house, he thought.

He slipped the key into his pocket, pushed the button on the control panel to unlock the trunk and made his way around. Across the road, the meter maid casually observed.

Then Luca popped the Camaro's trunk and raised the carpeted panel.

Jackpot.

Nestled snug amongst the spare tire and scattered lug nuts was a slim folio of scuffed blue leather. It was the kind of thing a dame might keep tucked in her purse, close to her chest. The kind of thing she might scribble deep thoughts and dark desires in when the world got too much and the walls started closing in.

A diary. Or near enough to make no difference.

The key turned smooth in the lock and then Luca was staring down at a sheaf of creamy vellum. He skimmed, speed-reading like his life depended on it.

It wasn't a diary, not exactly. More a catch-all of random thoughts and fever dream fragments. He caught words here and there, 'suffocating' and 'trapped' chief among them. Seemed Amanda Krafton wasn't too keen on her gilded cage.

But it was the final entry that grabbed him by the temples and squeezed.

Thursday, 6PM, writing class @ Ghostlight Books

‘Ghostlight Books,' Luca said aloud.

Luca's stomach did a gymnast routine. Another tick in the 'too much goddamn coincidence' column. What were the odds that a murdered woman would have an appointment at a place named Ghostlight Books when a haunted house-obsessed maniac was taking lives?

In this town? In this case?

Somewhere south of slim and edging towards none.

Luca slammed the trunk closed and pocketed the book. The street was empty now, stragglers chased off by the sinking sun and the promise of a cold one waiting at home. Luca took a moment to center himself, to let the SWAT team of theories and possibilities that was stampeding through his head settle into some semblance of order.

Amanda Krafton had been heading to Ghostlight Books for a writing class. A class that just so happened to dovetail with their perp's jaunty pseudonym. A class that no one, not even her dear husband, knew much about.

Her car had been left to rot while she went... where?

To visit a friend her husband didn't know about?

One thing was for certain. Luca needed to see this bookstore.

Behind him, the parking enforcer still had eyes on him. Luca spun to her. ‘Excuse me, miss. Do you know where I could find Ghostlight Books?'

Meter maid perked right up. ‘Sure do. 'Bout a quarter mile thataway, then hang a right. Blink and you'll miss it, but it's a real cozy spot.'

‘Much obliged. Would you mind keeping an eye on this car until I can get someone out to tow it? Should be in the next hour or so.'

‘No problem, sweetie. Doubt anyone would stop to take a look at it anyway.'

Luca tipped an imaginary cap and then hoofed it up the street. He had a feeling in his gut like he'd swallowed barbed wire. The same feeling he'd had right before the world went sideways on their last case. Something was coming. He just prayed they were ready for it when it did.

Please, please let this be something.