Chapter 10

TEN

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” Jack glanced at Harper now as they drove to the Duck Lake Motor Lodge.

Aw, it shouldn’t have come out like that, but?—

“Why do you have to be so bossy?” She arched a pious eyebrow.

“It’s just like . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing. It just . . . you don’t . . . you don’t give up. And then?—”

She turned to him. “Wait one second. Are you talking about what happened ten years ago ?”

“No.” Yes. Maybe .

She had followed him out to his car again, with Conrad and Steinbeck in hers, and he’d had the terrible urge to lock the door and leave her standing in the Echoes parking lot. Or not . Because the other urge was to keep her Velcroed to himself, make sure that whatever game Penelope’s kidnapper might be playing, it didn’t end up with Harper shot or in a coma or?—

“Breathe.” She touched his arm, shaking him out of himself, and he swallowed. “Everything is going to be fine. I’m not in any danger.”

His mouth pursed. He didn’t know what to trust, his gut or his head. But Occam’s razor said that the simplest theory was probably right. And the simplest theory in this case said that someone was trying to eliminate Penelope and anyone associated with her, and that included Harper.

Thankfully, before he said anything stupid, his phone rang. He went to pick it up, but Harper held up her hand. “You’re driving.” She answered it, turned it on speaker, and held it up between them.

He glanced at her. Then, “Jack here.”

“It’s Coco. I got into his phone. And I mapped his route.”

Jack wished his chest would loosen at that news. “And?”

“No airport trips. But he did get a call from your friend Penelope and pick her up on Tuesday in Duck Lake.”

“At a place called Echoes?”

“Huh. You might not need my help.”

“I do. Keep going.”

“So yeah. He had a few other rides, mostly from town. One from an apartment complex to a church, another from the market out to the Duck Lake Motor Lodge. That was Tuesday night before he picked up Penelope.”

Aw . Now acid filled his chest.

“His final ride ended at the supper club.”

“In every sense of the term.”

She made a sound of agreement.

He’d reached the highway that circled the south end of the lake, driving past the Moonlight Supperclub on the way to the boat ramp. “Any other calls or texts?”

“That’s it. How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. Thanks, Coco.”

“Anytime. Any cousin of Ranger’s is a friend of mine.”

“Thanks.” Then he hung up.

“The motor lodge is right down the road from the supper club,” Harper said.

“Yep.” His mouth pinched at the edges.

“What if the killer called him to pick him up and drive him to the supper club, and then he pulled up, saw Penelope, and . . . what?”

“You saw the tape. She leaned down and opened the door, no coercion.”

“As if she knew the guy in the car?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she just trusted Ty.”

They’d reached the entrance to the motor lodge, a painted wooden sign out front next to a giant carved duck. The long timber building was filled with one-unit rooms with outside doors, recently updated by the look of the new windows, the lighting along the edge of the roof, the Adirondack chairs on the shoveled porch.

Above the blackened unit, smoke still scattered in the sky. A fire engine was parked out front, hoses trailing into the charred open door. Two cruisers from the local sheriff’s office and a coroner’s van were parked outside, a body on a yellow board, covered in a tarp.

Jack spotted Jenna outside the room, talking with another deputy.

“I can’t seem to escape that woman,” Harper said under her breath.

Jenna clearly felt the same, because she shook her head as Jack and Harper crossed the parking lot toward her. Behind them, Conrad and Stein rolled in—their backup, apparently. They lumbered up as Jack stood at the edge of the crime-scene tape.

“What are you doing here, Jack?” Jenna said, casting him a look.

What, no flirty smile?

“Who’s the vic?”

Jenna shook her head.

“C’mon. We’re still on the hunt for Harper’s friend, and . . .” He turned, his hands in his pockets, spotted the landing just across the street. More crime-scene tape flapping in the wind. He turned back. “Was this arson?”

“Too early to tell. Fire chief thinks it was slow-burning—might have started from a space heater that shorted.”

“That’s not what my gut says.”

“Then your gut needs to spill.” She stepped up. “What aren’t you telling me?”

And just like that, he was face-to-face in his memory with Sheriff Wade as they wheeled Tansy into an ambulance. “This is on you.”

He held up a hand. “I’m not withholding anything. It’s just a little . . . fishy.” He glanced at the lake and back. “Where’s the victim’s car?”

She, too, looked around the lot.

“You talk to the motel clerk?”

“Yes. The deceased checked in Tuesday night, spent the night, and no sighting of him after that. The clerk said that Wednesday morning she saw that his car was gone, so she charged him for the night and thought he’d left. The cleaning service came in this morning. In the winter, they come every Friday, in case there are weekend motorists.”

“So, his car was gone by Wednesday. What kind of car?”

She gave him a look.

“I’m just trying to help. Listen, there’s a woman missing, a shooting, and a murder in this very small town on the very week that Boo Kingston is marrying a country-music superstar. You don’t think that’s a little worrisome?”

Her mouth tightened. “Yes. Fine. Sheriff Davidson is aware of this. He’s already met with the security team for the event. He’s probably with them now?—”

“Who’s the victim, Jenna?” Harper, her voice sharp. “Please.”

Jenna looked at Harper. “You back for good?”

“No.”

Jenna nodded. Glanced inside, then back at Jack. “Okay. The news will pick it up later today anyway. According to the front desk, his name is Kyle Brunley, from Minneapolis.”

Jack tried not to stiffen, not to let the name find his solar plexus. Maybe he’d been expecting it, just a little. Still, he let a beat pass, then another.

Jenna frowned. “You know him?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Harper said on a wisp of breath. “He was last seen meeting with Penelope at Echoes Vinyl Café.”

Jenna looked at Jack, almost accusingly.

“I don’t know that that was the last known sighting of him,” Jack said. “But yes, I think he came to town to meet her.”

“Why?”

“He was a suspect in her murder-podcast case.” And now his breath returned to him, along with a dark swirl deep in his chest. He reached out and found Harper’s hand. “Any idea of when he might have been murdered?”

“Hard to say.”

“Could it have been Tuesday night?”

“No way to tell. He’s . . . there’s not much left.”

“Okay, that’s it.” He turned and practically pulled Harper away from the crime scene, into the parking lot. Stein and Conrad, who stood sentry behind him, parted, then followed like Dobermans.

Good . He’d need them to wrestle her into the car. “You’re going back to the inn.”

She yanked out of his grip. “Have you lost your mind? Maybe you haven’t caught on yet, but you’re not the boss of me. In fact, you work for me.”

“No, I don’t, and yes, I am the boss of you. Starting right now.”

“No—”

“Yes,” Conrad said.

She tried to level him with a look. Good thing Conrad knew how to take a hit.

“He’s probably right,” Stein said, a little more calmly.

Thank you, bros.

“But mostly because it’s rehearsal night, and Boo is going to start wondering where you are.”

She stared at Stein. “I don’t have to be at the rehearsal for eight hours.”

“Don’t forget dance lessons,” Conrad said.

“What is wrong with you people? My friend was with a guy who was shot and a man who was murdered, and you want me to learn how to dirty dance? Wow.” She held out her hand. “Keys, please.”

Conrad dug them out, and as he did, Jack wanted to grab them from his hand because?—

“Thank you.” She swiped them from him. “I’ll do my own investigation.”

“Harper!” Jack started after her. Grabbed her arm. She whirled around, a terrible glint in her eyes. The keys fell from her hand. Stein picked them up.

She reached for them, but he held them back.

“Seriously?” Her voice shook and she rounded on Jack. “I’m not a high-schooler anymore!”

“I know!” He ran his hand across his mouth, nearly shaking. “Don’t you think I know that? Sheesh—” He shook his head. Not now . “I very much, clearly know that you’re not a high-schooler.” He held up his hands and took a breath. “You don’t have to be a teenager to get in over your head.”

“And you’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen?—”

“Yes! Okay?” He dropped his voice low. “I’m just trying to?—”

“Protect me?”

He gave her a look that once upon a time might have shut her down. “Yes.”

“So you’re just going to send me home, like a child, like Pigtails , while you and your brute squad?—”

“Hey—” Conrad said, but Stein put a hand out.

“—hunt down . . . who? Who, Jack? Because I’m the one who did the research, found the suspects, and downloaded the pictures.”

“Gimme your phone.”

“Not on your life.”

“Text them to me.”

She shook her head, her blue eyes hot, a little spitfire staring up at him.

He stood there, the wind around him, and tried to wrap his brain around the terrible, wretched urge to pull her to himself, to kiss her—and to show her exactly why she had to go home. Stay where he could find her.

I can’t lose you again.

The words entered his brain then, solidified, and he knew—just knew , like a blinding light that zinged through him—that he’d been running hard, just like she’d said.

Running from the crazy sense that they belonged together.

Denying it. But even as he looked at her, he saw them—a version of them that could be. Playing games in front of the hearth, maybe caretaking Rudolph House. Making dinner together . . .

He wanted something out there that he couldn’t put his hand around. And it started with Harper.

“I’ll take her home,” Conrad said. “Give me your keys.”

“I can drive myself,” Harper said.

“Not a chance.” Jack looked at her, and Conrad nodded. “I’ll take your car. Conrad, get her home.”

Jack gave his keys to Conrad, and just as he did, Stein tossed Jack Harper’s keys.

“I hate you all,” Harper said.

“I can live with that,” Jack said evenly.

“You’re fired,” she snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

She shook her head, walked to the Geo, got in. Slammed the door.

Conrad glanced at Jack. “You sure you want this to go down this way, bro?”

“Keep an eye on her.” Jack turned to Stein. “Ready to hunt down a couple of local firebombing terrorists?”

“Just when I thought Duck Lake was boring. High drama and suspense.” He glanced at the Geo. “She’ll get over it if we find her friend.”

As Jack got into Harper’s little Sonic, he watched Conrad drive away in his Geo. Harper looked like he’d broken a piece of her soul.

Just like she had a decade ago.

“No, bro. She won’t.” Then he pulled out and headed back to Duck Lake.

* * *

And now she was twelve, being hauled home by one of the Kingston brothers, as if she needed babysitting.

Conrad brought her to the Big House, as it were. Tonight’s big rehearsal-dinner event was being hosted by Oaken and his team at the Paddle House after the dance class. The Kingston team would decorate the third-floor ballroom for the private wedding reception. She didn’t wait for Conrad as she headed inside through the kitchen.

Mama Em stood, aproned, at the massive stainless-steel kitchen island, frosting a layer of wedding cake. Already, over sixty cupcakes sat frosted, with Austen decorating the tops of the blue swirls with white edible glitter.

Boo, too, wore an apron and was frosting tiny pink, yellow, and green macaroons. The kitchen smelled of celebration and cut into the jumble of her hot emotions enough for her to take a breath.

Mama Em looked up at her arrival. “Bee! Good, you’re here. I need floral arrangements put together. Just for the guest rooms—Dodge and Echo are coming from Alaska, and Ranger and his wife, Noemi, will be spending the night, since they’re coming from Minneapolis.”

Being pulled back into the Kingston vortex of activity might be exactly what Harper needed.

Conrad came in behind her, hung Jack’s keys on a hook, then shrugged off his coat. “Smells great, Ma. What can I do?”

“Go upstairs and help Doyle set up all the tables and chairs for the reception.”

Conrad walked away, and Harper eyed the keys just for a moment, then spotted the bouquets of flowers seated in buckets near the floral workstation. Two crystal vases sat on the counter.

She grabbed the flowers, unwrapped them, then sorted them out into sections. Blue anemones, white roses, blue carnations, mini calla lilies, cedar branches, and purple hyacinths, along with a bouquet of baby’s breath. She measured the vases, then trimmed the stems under running water and removed any leaves below the rims.

“So you’re just going to send me home, like a child, like Pigtails . . .”

He’d blinked at her then, as if she’d slapped him, but she’d been too busy retorting to Conrad to respond.

Now her words burned inside her. And it reminded her of Jack’s statement two days back about his fight with Boo four years ago.

“I was just trying to protect her.”

Yeah, well, Harper didn’t need protection. She wasn’t a child.

She used the cedar as a base, then started with calla lilies, then the roses, then carnations. She added the anemones last and put the bouquet into the vases.

“Don’t you think I know that? Sheesh!”

She’d missed, also, the drop in his voice, the tremor.

Still, hello, they were partners.

“Rule three. I work alone.”

So apparently, she’d ignored that.

“Those are beautiful, Bee.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at Mama Em’s voice. “Thanks.”

“I could always count on you to get these right.” Mama Em leaned in. “You have just the touch.”

“They need the baby’s breath, and maybe a raffia ribbon around the vase.”

“Perfect.” Mama Em put her arm around her. “I’ve missed your touch around here. You’ve always been a part of the team.” She let her go and headed back to her cake.

And now Harper’s stupid eyes decided to water. She blinked back the burn, added the final touches, then picked up a vase. “I’ll deliver these to the rooms?”

“Perfect.” Mama Em had started added the frosting to the second layer of cake.

“I’ll go with you,” Boo said, and walked over to get the second vase. She picked it up and followed Harper from the room.

The door closed behind them. “Okay, so what’s up?”

Harper glanced at Boo. “What?”

“You and Jack. Inseparable for the last two days, and then . . . what? You’re here? Alone?” She led the way up the wide mahogany stairs. “And by the way, where is Penelope?”

Harper followed her down the hallway on the second floor. Boo went into a room, the Gatsby suite, decorated in the black and gold of the era—long black curtains with gold tassels, and on the four-poster bed, a red brocade coverlet, again with gold fringe, and a green chaise lounge. Boo set the flowers on a black lacquered dresser.

Then she looked at Harper and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Harper said. “Jack is . . . looking for her.”

“Jack, whose schoolie was torched today?” Boo put her hands on her hips. “What am I missing here?”

Harper sighed and headed to the next room, the Fitzgerald. A carved four-poster bed in rich mahogany with a navy coverlet, pale-pink art-deco wallpaper, gold velvet drapes, and a love seat facing the candle-filled hearth. Harper set the vase on a writing desk, next to a vintage gramophone.

She turned to go, but Boo grabbed her hand. “Harp.”

Shoot, now her eyes burned again. She met Boo’s gaze. Swallowed. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but Penelope is . . . maybe in trouble. We tracked her down to a coffee shop, where she met with a guy named Kyle Brunley?—”

“The friend of Sarah Livingston.”

“Yes—I didn’t know you listened to the podcast.”

“Of course I do.” Boo pulled Harper over to the love seat. “He’s a suspect in the murder.”

“Except he’s dead.”

Boo’s mouth opened.

“And Ty Bowman was shot.”

“Ty—wait, from high school?”

“He’s an Uber driver in Duck Lake. He’s in a coma at the hospital in Waconia. Shot in the head and left at the Duck Lake Landing boat launch. Kyle was found at the Motor Lodge.”

“They are right across the street from each other.”

“Penelope was in the car when Ty was shot.”

Bront? just stared at her.

“I’m sorry. Jack didn’t want you to worry?—”

“Are you kidding me? Why hasn’t he called the police?”

“He did. He’s working with Jenna.”

An eyebrow arched. “Really.”

“It’s fine. But . . .” She sighed. “He sent me home with Conrad. Like I’m twelve.”

Bront? took her hand. “He’s just worried?—”

“He’s not my big brother.” Harper looked past her out the window. “Or at least, I was hoping not. . .”

Her gaze flicked back to Boo, who now did a poor job of hiding a smile.

“It’s like I can’t seem to quit him. Like . . . I don’t know. He was more than my first crush. I built a happily-ever-after world around him.” She didn’t know why she was saying this to Boo, but, well, her best friend probably already knew. “I even wrote a romance novel about . . . well, a guy named Jack. Only, it ends up happily ever after too.” Her eyes burned again, and she swiped her cheek. “And it’s not just that . . .” She sighed. “I feel so helpless. So . . . angry. I know I could help find her if he would let me.”

“How?” Boo wore a little fire in her eyes.

“Tommy Fadden, the neighbor, said he saw a masked man leaving her apartment the night of her murder. Penelope said that the police had discounted his testimony because he was sort of obsessed with Sarah, but what if . . . what if he has more to say? Something that could help us find this Zorro guy…”

“Zorro?”

“Sounds better than ‘masked man.’” She finger quoted the last words.

“You’re such a storyteller. No wonder your blog post about the wedding dance rehearsal got so many likes.”

“It posted?”

“Yeah. PopMuse picked it up and it’s trending, along with an engagement photo. And a few memes of our faces over Patrick Swayze’s and Jennifer Grey’s.”

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

Boo laughed. “Yeah. So”—she looked at her watch—“you have exactly six hours to find Tommy Fadden, interrogate him, and get back for the wedding rehearsal. Hopefully with Penelope in tow.”

“At least with information I can give to the police.” She took Boo’s hand. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.”

“Jack’s on it. I don’t know what I could do to help anyway.” She met Harper’s gaze. “Find Tommy. I’ll cover for you. Maybe Jack deserves a little taste of his own medicine.” She winked.

Harper took the Geo, because what else did she have to drive, thank you? Listened to the radio—classic rock already preprogrammed into his radio.

“Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Whatever. She probably needed to give up on her fairy tale.

An hour later, she pulled up in front of 56th Manor, a small three-story apartment complex with a mansard roof and outside parking cordoned off by tall, grimy snowbanks. An entry allowed for mailboxes, with a list of names on a buzzer panel. She found the one for Tommy Fadden and pressed the buzzer. What were the odds that he might be home on a Friday?—

“Yo.”

She leaned in. “Tommy. My name is Harper Malone. I’m . . . a friend . . . of . . . well, Penelope Pepper. Can we talk?”

Silence.

More silence.

Then a buzz and she pushed inside. The place smelled tired. Orange-and-brown patterned carpet, no elevator, open stairs in the middle of the landing, and past that, a hallway toward the units. Sarah had lived on the ground floor, Tommy beside her, and now Harper found his apartment, gold number three on the door.

It opened before she knocked.

Tommy Fadden had seen better years, a look in his eyes that suggested bad choices and even worse consequences. Early thirties, maybe, wearing a pair of faded jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt, barefoot, a faded tat on his neck, bald, unshaven. His gaze darted down the hall, back to her.

“Harper?”

“Can I come in?”

He drew in a breath, then opened the door further.

What are you doing? But she’d told Boo where she was going, and really, Penelope had already interviewed him.

And it was daytime.

Aw, her gut fisted as he shut the door.

A bachelor’s apartment. Flatscreen on the wall with cords hanging down, leading to some sort of gaming controller. Tweed sofa, a scuffed coffee table hosting a can of Red Bull. A single bar stool sat next to a counter that overlooked a tiny kitchen. A Styrofoam container with the words The Anchor sat on the counter, half open, with the remains of tangy chicken wings. The smell still hung in the air.

He offered her the sofa.

“I won’t bother you for long.” She remained standing.

He folded his arms and sank onto the stool. The man clearly worked out. “I already told Penelope everything I know. She didn’t use half of it, though.”

“Really.”

“It wasn’t the first time Sarah’s place was broken into. Her back French door was jimmied a couple weeks earlier and her laptop taken.”

Maybe she should sit down.

“I work late shift down at the Anchor bar.”

“I’ve heard of it.” Rough, down in the warehouse district. Maybe he was the bouncer?—

“I’m a bartender, so I have to close. She had a cat, and Sarah was gone—one of her overnight real-estate events with her ex. Never liked him.”

“Walsh.”

“Yeah. A big real-estate developer. Hotshot.”

“The podcast said he was her boss.”

“She was a freelancer, so not technically, but . . .”

Maybe she’d misjudged him, the way his jaw tightened. Not a thug. A protector .

“That night of the . . . murder. What did you see?”

Tommy looked back at her, his eyes a little reddened. “Same thing I did before. I’d gotten home, was going over to feed her cat when I saw her French door hanging open. I thought maybe she’d forgotten to lock it, so I went in.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Got beaned. Not sure with what—could have been the laptop. But it knocked me over long enough for the guy to get away. Big guy, built. Bigger than me.”

“Really? That’s a big help.”

“Fine. Six three, six four. Burly. All black clothes, and he wore a mask.”

“Like a Halloween mask?” She refrained from the Zorro description.

“No. Like a . . . special ops kind of mask. With a thermal eyepiece, mouth guard, hoodie. Like he might be military.”

“Thermal eyepiece.”

“Night vision, maybe, because he had good aim. I still have a bump.”

“No idea who he might have been?”

“I wish it were Holden Walsh, but he alibied out both times, according to Penelope.”

That jibed with what Penelope had said on the podcast.

“Any other ideas? Kyle Brunley?”

He almost laughed. “That guy? No. Let’s just say he’s built for running, not fighting.” He got up and walked around the counter. “Naw.” He opened a drawer and pulled out something. Dropped it on the counter. “And there’s this.”

He held up a matchbox with a logo on it, a blue-and-black swirl. “ Turbo . What’s that?”

“It’s a nightclub. Downtown.”

“Where’d you find this?”

“On the floor of Sarah’s apartment, after the guy got away. I’d gotten ahold of his pants pocket as he was running away, and it ripped.”

“And you didn’t give this to the police?”

He cocked his head at her. “And have them look at me? C’mon—I already have a rap sheet. Burglary, back when I was eighteen. Did two years in Saint Cloud. I’ve been clean since then—head down, got my bartender’s license. I don’t want any trouble.” He held out his hand for the matchbox. “I did take a trip down to Turbo, though, had a look around. The building is under Swindle and Walsh—S & W Management.”

She handed the matches back to him. “Really.”

“Yeah.” He met her eyes.

Something had shifted in his, and she frowned. Swallowed. “Okay, well, thank you.” She held out her hand.

His hand closed around hers. His eyes narrowed just around the edges. He didn’t let go.

“Um. I need to go?—”

“Sorry, honey. You’re not going anywhere.”