Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Noelle

I sit in my car, my attention shifting from the map unfolded on my lap to the ramshackle shack with the drooping fairy lights strung along the roof. Dancing Ladies isn't much to look at from the outside. I have a suspicion it's not much to look at from the inside either, but I don't have any firsthand knowledge to support this guess.

I'm stalling. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes even though the clue is glaringly obvious. This has to be the spot. It's right there in the name. And the row of motorcycles parked to the right of the metal doors at the entrance might as well be a big, blinking arrow. The Lords of the Mountain are here. I don't know if they're leaping, exactly, but this is the right place. It has to be.

Still, I hesitate. Aside from being a skosh nervous about strolling into a nudie bar frequented by a gang of bikers, I'm hung up on one detail. Dancing Ladies isn't technically on the map. The spot where I sit is on the map, but there's no structure marked. So far, all the clues have been in places that are represented on the map. Even the waterfall and the big rock outcropping are drawn in. But not this strip club. And, technically, according to the signage on Hemlock Road, it's just over the county line. I'm not in Mistletoe Mountain anymore, Toto.

"Stop being a chicken." I say it aloud in an effort to convince myself to get moving.

I must be persuasive, because I fold up the map and return it to my glove box. Then I exit the car, tugging my hoodie down over the form-fitting yoga pants to cover my bum as I march toward the front door of the club. I reassure myself that no one's going to be checking out my butt or any other part of my anatomy when the competition is flexible women who dance for a living. I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the sticky handle of the front door, and try not to imagine what substance might account for the stickiness as I give the door a push. I consider wiping my hand on my jacket and think better of it. Then I plunge into what I'm sure will be the dank, dark, dirty, and depressing interior of Dancing Ladies.

I stop just inside the door and blink. It's none of these things. The decrepit exterior hides an open, airy room. Velvet settees and overstuffed chairs are scattered throughout the space in cozy groupings. A long, gleaming bar runs the length of one wall. Strings of tiny lights twinkle along the ceiling. It's prettier than I'd expected .

There are, however, bikers everywhere. At first glance, they're intimidating. Leather vests with no shirts underneath, tattoos, and heavy boots. Loud, raucous laughter and shouted conversations. But on closer inspection, I recognize several of the Lords. I spot the town orthodontist, the swim instructor from the pool, my insurance agent, and Brent Stillwater's dad, who runs an animal rescue center.

Shifting my focus from the patrons to the performers, I see several women I recognize from Griselda's studio. There are two satellite stages and a larger main stage. The dancers are not naked—they're what I would call lightly clothed. And judging by their hip gyrations, none of them get called out during Hoop It Up class.

I sidle up to the bar. After a moment, I catch the bartender's eye. He's a young guy, built like a linebacker, with close-cropped hair and an earring sparkling in one ear.

"What's your poison?"

Just then, the music pulsing from the speakers hits a bridge and I have to shout, "Soda water with a twist of lime."

He throws me a wink and mouths, "You got it."

I'm trying to figure out the best way to ask this man if he has a clue for me when someone taps my shoulder.

"Ms. Winters?"

I turn around to see Delphina Gupta gawking at me. I gape back at her, as surprised as she is. "Noelle. If there's ever a place that you should call me by my first name, it's here."

She tips back her head and laughs. "What are you doing here?"

I wonder the same about her. But it's not my business, so I say, "Looking for a clue. "

"Here?" She instantly hones in on the issue. "I don't remember this place being on your map."

"It's not. But this has to be the right spot." I pull out the clue and hand it to her.

She studies it with a small frown before passing it back to me. "You're right. But why isn't it on the map?"

I tuck the clue away and then throw my hands wide, palms up. "Beats me."

The bartender returns with my drink and raises an eyebrow at Delphina. "Another round of tequila for your table?"

"Please."

"Ah, youth," I snort.

She shrugs. "Sometimes a girl needs to break free of the Christmas-all-the-time vibe in town. Don't get me wrong, I love Mistletoe Mountain, but it's … a lot."

I can only imagine. Sometimes it's a lot for me, and I grew up here. Delphina's parents moved to Vermont from Bangalore when she was two years old. And while Mistletoe Mountain celebrates every holiday under the sun, from Diwali to Holi, Hanukkah to Eid-al-Fitr, and throws a lunar new year festival and a Pride Parade that must be seen to be believed, it remains a relentlessly, unapologetically Christmassy town. Who am I to judge if she wants to take off her elf hat for a night and cut loose?

"I get it," I assure her.

The bartender returns with four shots. After Delphina settles up, I help her carry the drinks over to her table. She introduces me to her friends, who urge me to join them, but she waves them off .

"I'll be right back," she tells them. She motions for me to follow her. "Come on."

We head back to the bar, and she leans across the surface to shout, "Titus, did anybody leave a message for my friend? Her name is Noelle."

His eyes slide over my face as he answers her. "I don't think anyone expected your friend to be here."

"That's fair. How about any messages for anybody?"

Titus' expression tightens. "It's not that kind of place, Delphina. The Lords are super clear about that—no dealing, no arranging deals. That's not what we're doing here."

"No, it's nothing like that," I reassure him. "I'm doing a scavenger hunt, and my last clue brought me here."

"Sorry, ma'am. I don't know what kind of scavenger hunt you're doing, but whatever you're looking for, it's not here. Unless it's in the bottom of a glass or up on the stage."

I'm offended that he called me ma'am and disappointed that he doesn't have an envelope tucked behind the bar for me.

Deflated, I drop my shoulders. "Okay, thanks."

He walks to the other end of the bar to wait on a cluster of patrons.

Delphina shakes her head. "This has to be the clue."

I scan the room. I can't quite see myself crawling under all these tables and searching for an envelope. "I don't know …"

She snaps her fingers. "There's a seating area out back—some picnic tables, and a porta-john. They have live music on the weekends. Maybe it's out on the patio."

"Maybe," I say, not very hopefully. "I'll check it out on my way out. Enjoy your evening. "

She reaches for my arm. "Wait. Please don't say anything to Holly or her family about, you know, what I said about Christmas."

I glance over her head and nod toward a group of Lords who also belong to the Chamber of Commerce. "Your secret's safe with me, but I'm pretty sure everyone in town has thought at least once of trading Christmas all year for something slightly edgier."

She laughs. "Thanks for understanding."

She makes her way back to her friends and tosses back her shot. I dig into the zippered pocket of the yoga pants and smooth out the emergency ten dollar bill I tucked in there earlier. I slip it under my glass.

"Thanks," the bartender calls, jerking his chin at me while he pulls two pints from the beer taps. "Good luck with your search. I hope you find what you're looking for."

As I cross the floor to the door, the song ends. In the sudden silence, I can feel eyes boring into my back. I pick up my pace. The music resumes as I nudge the door open.

I step out into the parking lot and pause to look for a path to the back patio. I spot it on the other side of the building. As I pass by the line of motorcycles, the door opens and someone else leaves the club with a burst of music. I round the corner of the building and head for the patio.

Judging by the crunch of the gravel behind me, instead of continuing on to their bike or car, the person who followed me out the door is trailing me to the back of the building. Even though it's still daylight, my heart rate ticks up and the skin on the back of my neck prickles just like it did in the woods yesterday. I dig my car keys out of my pocket, fist them between my fingers, teeth out, and quicken my pace.

Just a quick search of the picnic tables, I promise myself.

Even as I try to pretend that I'm not in danger, part of my brain is screaming at me. If I were reading this in one of my mystery books, I would be disgusted and frustrated by the main character's questionable decision-making. There's a decent chance I'd slam my book shut in frustration, declaring the sleuth in question TSTL—too stupid to live.

I walk even faster, almost jogging now. The footsteps behind me speed up, too. Should I turn around and make eye contact, let my pursuer know I know they're there? Or should I just keep going, not engage? Before I have a chance to decide, a hand wraps around my upper arm, yanks me off the path, and pulls me behind the porta-potty.

There are two of them.

The realization hits me like a flash—along with the terrifying thought that I really might be too stupid to live.

I fill my lungs, then pierce the air with a scream that gets cut off as a heavy hand clamps over my mouth.