Chapter 20

Jazz scanned the old mansion as she followed the longtime housekeeper, Mrs. Bates, to the study. Some rich people liked new houses with modern décor. Not the Cracklens. They were old school. Nothing but the classics. Classic, old-world opulence and luxury.

And class. Always class.

That taste was reflected in the interior she knew so well. The marble floor that shined in the foyer beneath a large, low-hanging chandelier. The long staircase that curved along one wall and climbed to the balcony that led to the bedrooms.

The housekeeper led Jazz through the parlor, the library, past the billiard room, and to the study where her uncle had spent much of his time when Jazz was a child. The billiard room and study were the least familiar to her since she'd rarely been allowed in them.

Aunt Joan hadn't wanted Jazz around much either. She'd usually sent Jazz away to her bedroom anytime Jazz dared talk or hang around. But Uncle Pierce had been off-limits completely. Aunt Joan told her never to disturb him. And Jazz had never wanted to. He'd seemed as unapproachable and disapproving as…well, her dad.

The memories of her uncle's grim demeanor increased, tensing her insides as Mrs. Bates stopped by the closed study door. "You may go in now."

But did Jazz want to? She looked down at the shoebox in her hands, second-guessing her goodwill gesture. It had seemed like a nice idea to give Uncle Pierce some photos she had of Aunt Joan from years ago, when Jazz had been a kid. Aunt Joan may not have been the loving mother figure Jazz had longed for, but she was still family. And she'd taught Jazz some life lessons along the way. Mostly how to sit up straight and cross her legs when wearing skirts.

Aunt Joan was the only sort of mother Jazz had known. Seemed like she should try to honor her memory somehow.

"He's expecting you." Mrs. Bates lifted thin eyebrows above the disapproving gaze Jazz remembered too well. Usually delivered when she'd found Jazz swiping a book from the library or when Jazz had gotten muddy playing in the yard.

"Right." Though he was only expecting her now because when Jazz had shown up at the front door, Mrs. Bates went to check with him before letting Jazz inside. "Thanks."

Jazz took in a breath and stepped toward the door. She could do this. She'd faced real-life combat for goodness sakes. And Uncle Pierce had actually defended the PK-9 Agency the other day in front of Aunt Joan. Maybe that meant he was positively inclined toward Jazz and her work now.

She gripped the knob and pushed open the door. "Uncle Pierce?"

The study looked just the way her vague memory recollected. Though maybe not quite so large. Her childhood perspective had remembered the desk that stood toward the back of the room as the size of a large bed, and the floor-to-ceiling shelves had seemed like giants leaning toward her, ready to chase her from the room.

But in reality, the study wasn't oversized and didn't seem ominous.

Even with Uncle Pierce sitting at the reasonably large desk. "Jazz." He stood and walked around the desk.

She instinctively paused, her reflexes prepping for a threat.

But he smiled.

She could count on one hand the times she'd seen him smile at home. And none of them had ever been aimed at her.

He stopped in front of her with the smile that looked genuine. It was almost warm, actually, with a bit of crinkle at the corners of his green eyes.

She'd sometimes wondered as a child if she'd inherited her eye color from him since no one else in her family had green eyes. But Aunt Joan had explained, with no small degree of irritation, that he wasn't her blood relative and therefore not her real uncle.

"Welcome home."

A breeze could've knocked Jazz over as she stared at him. Had he really said that? And with a kind smile?

The words shot a pulse of warmth through her that ballooned in her heart. If only the sentiment were true.

His smile dimmed slightly as he watched her.

Something in her expression must have shown her surprise or disbelief.

"I know you weren't always as happy here as we would've liked. It was hard for you, being away from your dad, and we didn't always know how to help you with that."

Love and acceptance would've worked. She held in the comeback. If Uncle Pierce was going to start being nice, she didn't want to ruin it by insulting him.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "I was so busy with work, I'm afraid I didn't do a good job stepping into your dad's shoes and being what you needed."

Was Uncle Pierce apologizing? She fought to keep her mouth from hanging open.

"I'm sorry for that."

Wow. There it was. An apology. Maybe the world would stop turning next.

"Losing Joan…your aunt…has made me see some things for the first time." He turned his head away. "Family is everything." His voice thickened.

Was he about to cry? No way.

He sniffed as he turned and headed back to his desk. "Here I am, going on like a lonely old man. Please," he gestured to the chair on the front side of his desk, "have a seat and tell me what brings you by."

She cautiously walked to the leather armchair and sat. "I thought you might like some old photos I have of Aunt Joan." She scooted forward and set the shoebox on the edge of his desk. "A few of us at the fair with some vendors. And there are others of the time she directed our school choir when Sandra and Crystal were in it."

He reached for the box and opened it, sifting through the photos. A smile lifted his mouth as he brought his gaze up to her. "These are wonderful. Thank you, Jazz." His attention lowered to a photo in his hand. "It's hard to see her. But comforting, too."

A lump formed in Jazz's throat at the obvious weight of grief in his voice. He and Aunt Joan had argued a lot when Jazz had stayed with them, but overall, she knew they were a team. Both career-driven and focused on success for their daughters and themselves. They stuck together more years than most married couples these days. And they'd definitely made something of themselves and their children.

Their daughters must be coming for the funeral. And to be there for their dad. He'd need support. More than Jazz had realized until she saw him.

He was so changed by the loss. Even his posture was different, the usually proud stature slumped now, like he was weighted down by the burden of grief. But maybe the girls were already there, helping with funeral preparations.

"Are Sandra and Crystal here?"

"No. Not yet." He returned the photos to the box and pressed the lid down. "They aren't sure when they'll arrive. Possibly Wednesday." He met her gaze, a glint of pain in his eyes. "The funeral is scheduled for Saturday. I hope you'll be able to come."

Hadn't thought she'd be invited. But the Cracklens did always like to keep up appearances, so maybe that was why she was being included. She was Aunt Joan's biological family, after all.

"These photos might make a nice addition to the funeral." He rested his hand on the lid of the box. "Sandra and Crystal are considering a commemorative display for Joan. Perhaps they'd like to add a personal element with these." A small, sad smile settled on his face. "Do you have other items, maybe from Lawrence, that we could include? He may have kept mementos from their childhood."

"I don't know. I haven't really looked through Dad's things yet." And she didn't plan to, now at two years after his passing or twenty years later. Much easier to move on and try to forget.

"I'd be happy to help you look." Uncle Pierce's eyes filled with understanding as he watched her. "Though I know how it is with loss. Thanks to this experience." He winced and dropped his stare to the desktop. "Things you didn't think would be hard seem impossible when you lose someone you love."

He focused on Jazz again. "I don't mean to pressure you to do something you're not ready to yet. But it would mean a lot. There might be photos of Joan's childhood or other keepsakes that could be precious to me and her girls."

The pain in his eyes, the desperation to find comfort somewhere, twisted her heart. "Okay."

"You mean you'll let me help you look?"

"Sure. I guess."

"Thank you, Jazz." Warmth she'd never heard in his voice before softened his usually commanding tone. "Let me buy you dinner. I can bring takeout to your place, and we can walk down memory lane together."

Walk down memory lane. Sharing family history with a member of her family. Was that what normal people did? Longing tugged at her heart.

But Uncle Pierce wouldn't want to go to her tiny middle-class apartment. And did he even eat takeout? Nerves shooed away the dreamy spell. "Um, my apartment isn't much. And it's a total mess right now." Thanks to the thugs who'd just trashed it and were now warming the inside of a jail cell.

"No problem." He tapped his smartphone that lay on the desk and scrolled through something on the screen. "Let's make it two days from now. Tuesday at noon. I'll bring lunch." His commanding tone was back, though colored with a friendliness that she didn't remember.

"Okay. I guess that works." Since she had zero social life outside of Nevaeh. And maybe a handsome famous author, if she was lucky. Only problem was her patrol shift at the fair until four. But she could trade shifts with Sof and take the late night. She kept the complication to herself. Uncle Pierce didn't like complications.

"Wonderful." He set down his phone and stood.

She started to stand, too, but he waved her back down with his hand.

"Please, don't leave yet." He rounded the desk and sat on the front edge of it, close to Jazz's chair. "I need to tell you something." His eyes seemed serious and pensive as he aimed them at her. "Did you know your aunt wanted to have you over for brunch?"

A pang shot through Jazz's chest at the memory. The hope it had given her, for a moment. She nodded. "The day after she…died."

He nodded, the set of his mouth sad, as if he were holding back more grief. "She shared with me that since you were living close to us now, as an adult, she felt we should reconnect. She reminded me that family is important and should always be a priority. And with our daughters married and living in other states, I think she hoped you might be able to take their place, a little bit, in our lives."

The lump growing in Jazz's throat plunged behind her ribs and lodged there. Had she really? Maybe that was why Aunt Joan had been so much kinder and reminisced about the fair with Jazz that morning before…

"I admit, I didn't completely understand what she was thinking, though I heartily agreed we should reconnect with you." He looked off to the side. "But now that she's…gone." The thickness returned to his voice. He kept his gaze averted. "I understand what she meant." He drew in a shaky breath. Then he ran a hand over his eyes before dragging his gaze back to Jazz.

Was that moisture lingering at the corner of his eye? Her chest clenched. Poor Uncle Pierce.

"You never know when you'll lose the family you have." He leaned forward and held his hand out to Jazz.

She stared at it. Did he want her to put her hand in his? The idea was beyond her comprehension. She glanced up at his face.

"You cannot put a price on family. And I want to make sure I don't lose any more of mine. Including you, Jazz." He moved his hand slightly closer.

Still not sure if he wanted her to, she reached out her hand and slowly set it in his. He closed his fingers around her hand in a soft, safe wrap like a dad might do with his daughter he loved.

Her heart swelled, even as she tried to tell it to stop. He was grieving. Hurting. He wasn't himself.

And at any moment, when the grief wore off or he got over the shock, he'd return to gruff, standoffish Uncle Pierce who cared only about his blood relatives and his career.

She'd be thrown out in the cold again.

But as he looked at her with the wound of loss and mourning in his eyes, she couldn't worry about protecting herself. No one was there for her when she'd lost loved ones. She couldn't turn her back on Uncle Pierce in the same situation. If he wanted her support, she'd try to give it to him. At least until his daughters came home or he went back to his old self. Whichever came first.

Even as she concocted the pragmatic reasoning in her mind, her gaze fell on his hand holding hers. Emotion she shouldn't indulge swelled in her heart. This must be what belonging felt like.

Maybe she could get a little comfort out of Uncle Pierce needing her, too, while it lasted.

"I like your choice of restaurants." Jazz hit Hawthorne with her big green eyes across the candlelit table.

He smiled. But if he'd known the setting of the highly rated Italian restaurant was so romantic, he probably would've picked somewhere else for dinner. "Well, I'm sure it isn't as nice as your apartment would've been." He glanced around at the elegant tables. Couples occupied most of them.

And Jazz had probably known what kind of restaurant this was. That would explain the burgundy dress she wore that highlighted her feminine curves perfectly. She looked stunning. But for a date.

He thought he'd been clear this was business. Research.

Nevaeh's questions cycled in his mind. Had she conveyed his answers to Jazz? The fact he'd said he wasn't romantically interested?

The heat in her eyes as she smiled could definitely be described as romantic. "Believe me, this is way better than my apartment. And I don't get to dress up often, so this is fun."

He forced another smile. "I'm glad." Except for the fact he may have accidentally caused her to think this was a date. "Thanks for agreeing to meet to help with my research." Maybe the reminder would help her remember his interest wasn't romantic.

She reached for her wine glass. "I still can't believe you want to feature me in a book." She took a sip and lowered the glass. "To be honest, with everything that's been going on, this is a nice escape from reality. Though at least nothing bad happened at the fair today."

Hawthorne lowered the fork he'd been winding his pasta around. "Nevaeh didn't tell you?"

"I didn't see her before I came here. She was getting off shift when you did."

Hawthorne nodded. "I was talking to her when the Skyride operator gave us a note he found in the east building."

Jazz's eyes widened. "A note?"

"From the cult. Or at least it looks like it is." He dug out his smartphone from the pocket of his slacks and pulled up the photo he'd taken of the note. He turned the phone, holding the screen toward Jazz.

She leaned forward as she stared at the image. "A death threat? More sabotage?"

"Seems like it."

A flash sparked in her eyes. "Over my dead body."

Hawthorne hid a grin. There was the ferocity of his heroine.

"Where did he find the note, specifically?"

"He said it was tucked into the base of the control panel stand. But that was in the east Skyride building. Far away from the midway where the explosion took place."

"So the police lab techs wouldn't have done a thorough search of that building."

"Exactly. They're doing that tonight, now that the note was found."

"Do you think it really is from the cult?"

Hawthorne paused before answering. He wanted to believe it. He'd jumped to that conclusion right away, fueled by his desire for Patch to be stopped, once and for all. But his reason and logic had caught up with him after his emotions calmed. "Hard to say for sure. On the one hand, it seems pretty dumb for anyone from the cult to use their own stationary if they're behind the sabotage and your aunt's death. But…"

"They're radical enough that they might be that bold?" Jazz's eyes scanned his face as if she was looking for answers there. "Maybe thinking they can't be caught or prosecuted for some reason?"

Hawthorne lifted his fork, catching more fettucine in the tines. "I could see that. Desmond Patch has an ego like you wouldn't believe. That can make some people think they're invincible."

Jazz's lips formed a thoughtful pucker. "I suppose it could also be some member of the cult, wanting to point the finger at Desmond." She lowered her eyebrows. "Though I don't know why they wouldn't just leave instead of doing something so drastic to get at him."

"You'd be surprised. People can get pretty messed up inside that place." And never leave. Even though they should.

Jazz gave him a look that suggested she'd read too much of the thoughts he hadn't spoken. Did she understand somehow? "Let's find out."

"What?"

"Let's go inside." She stabbed some spinach and arugula from her salad with her fork. "I don't know about you, but sitting around waiting for another sabotage attempt doesn't sound like fun. I want to find out if the cult is really behind this. Then we can do something about it."

A grin stretched Hawthorne's mouth. She was really something. "I like the way you think."

"Thank you." She flashed a big smile that sent a jolt through his chest. Like it would do to any healthy male, interested or not. She was a stunning woman. With an amazing personality to match.

Back on task, Emerson. Right. She wanted to go inside the cult. "Unfortunately, I'm not allowed at the commune."

"The commune? Is that what they call Best Life?"

"Yes. That's the community where all the members live together."

"Why aren't you allowed?" She took a bite of the greens.

"It's the regulation for anyone who leaves the cult after living there. They're banned from returning or having communication with any members."

Her eyebrows drew together as she quickly munched her mouthful of salad. She swallowed in a hurry. "You mean you can't communicate with your family there? With your parents and your sister?"

She'd paid attention to what he'd shared with her. Didn't know why that pleased him. Probably because she was the only person he'd shared that part of his background with. Well, the only person since Terry Prentice, the Marine chaplain who'd led him to Christ. "That's right. And they aren't allowed to communicate with me."

"That's awful." The sadness reflected in her emerald eyes showed she meant the words.

"Pretty much." Even more awful was the fact that his parents probably didn't want to communicate with him. Not when Desmond Patch commanded them not to. And not when he'd rejected the rules and community they'd chosen over everything else.

"I'll go in alone then." She took another sip of wine.

"What? I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not asking me to. I want to find out who's hurting my Tri-City Fair. Who killed my aunt. The evidence points to the cult so far, so that's where I'm going."

She sounded so much like the heroine he envisioned for his book. A woman who'd stop at nothing to catch the bad guys and see that justice was done.

"I'd be allowed, right?"

"If you acted like a tourist, yes." An idea sparked in Hawthorne's mind. "Better yet, you could pretend you're interested in joining Best Life. Then they'd even let you make an appointment to meet with Patch."

"Perfect. That's what I'll do then. I'll go and tell them I want to learn more about how to join."

"There's a tour you can take of the facilities."

"They give tours?"

He grinned at the incredulity in her voice. "Yeah. Patch has built the community into quite a corporate success. He and some cult members developed so-called natural supplements and organic foods that are supposed to help people live their best lives."

"And they produce those at the commune?"

"They used to. The products became successful enough to be manufactured on a larger scale elsewhere. So now the community lives off the proceeds of the products and spends their time in the pursuit of their ‘best lives.'" He created air quotes with his fingers around the words. "Though truthfully, Patch uses most of the profit himself. Everyone else in the community is sworn to live a moderate life, free of worldly excess."

Jazz quirked an eyebrow. "So he's a con artist."

"You got it."

"Yikes."

"Still want to go in there?"

"Oh, yeah. I've dealt with my share of sleazebags in my life. I enjoy bringing 'em down." She gave him a gleeful smile.

"I bet you do."

"While I'm in there, can I do any investigating for you?" Jazz forked more greens into her mouth.

Investigating. It would be an opportunity to get the information he needed about Sam. Should he tell her? It was a pretty big ask.

"Maybe I could find out how your family's doing or take them a message."

Ah. She meant that kind of investigating. Hadn't thought of that. Probably because he knew it would be fruitless. If his parents wanted to talk to him, cared about him at all, they could simply leave the cult. They'd made their priorities clear when they'd stayed. "That's kind of you to offer. But I have a different favor to ask."

"Oh?" Curiosity lit her gaze.

"You know the seventeen-year-old boy you mentioned that your aunt told you about?"

"The one who died in the accident at the fair?"

He nodded. "That's the one. I'm not sure it was an accident."

Her eyes widened. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. "Wait," she lowered her voice, "are you investigating his death?"

"Yes."

"That's the real reason you're here at the fair, isn't it?"

"Yes…But how did you—"

"You're like the real Carson Steele." She straightened as a big grin lit her face. "Of course, you're secretly investigating some crime."

He chuckled. "I don't actually do it that often. Usually, I'm just researching old crimes for inspiration. But my sister asked me to look into this one as a personal favor."

"The sister who left the cult?"

"Yeah. Sam, the boy who died, was her boyfriend when they were both still inside."

"But if he was a member of the cult himself, how could he still go to the fair?"

Hawthorne chewed and swallowed the fettucine that was getting cold, thanks to more talking than eating. "Sometimes the kids figure out ways to bend the rules." As he had more than once. "They want a taste of freedom. And they often have a better sense than the adults do that much is wrong with the culture at Best Life. It's their parents' choice to live under Patch's thumb, not theirs."

"Spoken from personal experience?"

Hawthorne quirked his mouth. Insightful and perceptive, too. He'd have to add those to her list of positive character traits. "Yeah."

"So what have you found out about his death?"

"Nothing concrete yet, but I'd like to follow up on some things that I can only do by getting into the cult."

"Or letting me go in for you."

"Exactly."

She clasped her hands together and let out a low-volume squeal. "I'm going to get to be like Carson Steele."

"A much prettier version." Where had that remark come from? She'd probably think he was flirting. But with her excited smile beaming at him, he couldn't help but voice the incongruity of her comparing herself to the gruff and rugged hero he'd created.

A pink hint of a blush flushed her cheeks in the dim lighting. She dropped her gaze for a second, then flitted her eyes near his face again, as if suddenly shy. "What would you like me to find out for you?"

"My sister told me about a young guy she thinks had motive to kill Sam. His name is Randall Gleams, and he'd be nineteen years old now. He apparently dated my sister and became jealous when she dumped him for Sam. She said he used to work in the gift shop. If you can get him talking about Sam and try to gauge his emotions about him, that could be helpful."

"Okay. Pump the jealous ex-boyfriend. What's your sister's name?"

"Rebekah."

Jazz smiled. "A lovely, traditional name."

He chuckled. "Which doesn't fit her at all. At least at this stage in her life."

Jazz's eyes twinkled back at him. "She sounds fun."

"That's one way of putting it." He shook his head. "She's a real task master with this investigation. Wants me to have it solved yesterday."

"Well, you are the famous Hawthorne Emerson. Carson Steele probably would've had it solved yesterday."

"Not at all." Hawthorne puffed up his chest as if offended. "The book would be way too short."

"Good point." Jazz grinned. "Anything else I can check out for you that would move things along, at an appropriate pace for your plot that I guess we're living out?"

The smile that didn't seem to leave his face much when Jazz was around stretched bigger. Great sense of humor. Needed to add that to his Jazz Lamont heroine, too. "Yeah. If you can talk to Sam's mom, that would be huge."

"His mom is still there?"

"According to Rebekah. She said his dad left because he blamed the cult, but Sam's mom stayed. I'll try to find out from Rebekah if she knows what dwelling Sam's mom is living in."

"Dwelling?"

"That's what w—" Had he really almost said we when referring to the cult? The near slip churned the fettucine that had made it to his belly. "It's what they call the condos the members live in."

"Okay. What do you want me to ask her?"

"Anything she remembers about that day before Sam snuck out in the evening. And especially if he had any friends on the outside, probably kids who aged out and left the cult."

"And if she knows of anyone who had motive to kill her son." Jazz's mouth straightened into a more serious line as her tone firmed.

"Good idea." A niggling sense of something wrong tingled at the back of his neck like a warning. "But, Jazz, do be careful. Nothing at the cult is what it seems. And you could be about to rattle the cage of a killer."