Death and Relaxation (3 page)

Dark skin and hair, long, muscular build under jeans and tank top. When he was out of the water, the main physical difference between him and a human was his deeply set, heavily lidded brown eyes, which gave him a lazy smolder.

The scaling along his neck and back of his hands had been enhanced by a tattoo artist who knew how to keep his mouth shut. The scales looked like they were tattooed on, and Chris just looked like he was a man who was really into ink.

That Hollywood movie with the guy in the rubber creature suit had really sold Chris short in the looks department.

“There was an explosion,” I said.

He nodded and stepped aside, letting me walk into the building. It was a working brewery and I inhaled the nutty yeast fragrance as I followed him down the roped-off pathway between huge metal tanks. “I heard. Up north of here?”

“Dan Perkin’s place.”

He chuckled. “Idiot. Always thought high blood pressure would be how he went out.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Oh.” Chris paused at the bottom of the narrow wooden stairs that led to the bar and restaurant on the second floor. “Well, good. Wouldn’t want to lose such a valuable member of our community.”

I snorted and took out the notebook, clicking the pen. “So where were you tonight? Exactly.”

He clomped up the stairs and into the main room. Unfinished wood and timbers racked the ceiling and walls. Decoration was limited to giant chalkboards that listed the brew options, flags, and photos of the place when it was first being restored into a brewery. The rolling metal garage door at the far end was closed. I knew it just opened to the catwalk that let tours stare at the vats and machinery from above.

Large windows that looked over the fishing boats in the bay took up the length of the building and at the end opposite the garage door was the bar.

Chris glanced that way, toward the bar, and the little door in there that was easy to mistake as a cleaning closet. I knew that door contained a private set of stairs that led down to his boat.

“I was here tonight. In bed.”

A little too much hesitation in that statement.

“All night?”

He caught the edge of my tone and gave me a very steady stare. “All night. Listen, Dan Perkin doesn’t like me. Something about the Rhubarb Rally contest? But I don’t care if I win—I’m brewing up that rhubarb cranberry lager as a marketing stunt. Speaking of which, how about an opinion on what to call it. Do you like the sound of Rhuberry Lager or Cranbarb Beer?”

“I like the sound of you getting on with telling me what happened between you and Dan.”

He shook his head, each thumb slowly dragging across the back of his index knuckle. It was a nervous habit I rarely saw out of him.

“Nothing happened. I’ve won a lot of other awards—important awards. I don’t care enough about a local festival to actually try to kill someone for it.”

“Not even Dan Perkin?”

“Tempting.” He flashed a smile. “But not even him. I know the rules. I listened the first time when your grandfather was chief of police. I would rather outlive Perkin than risk being thrown out of town.”

“Things change. So do people.”

“Maybe. But I’m not exactly people.”

“Close enough. He mentioned Ryder was here when you talked to Dan.”

“Earlier in the evening, yes. I saw him.”

“When did he leave?”

Chris glanced up at the ceiling. “I think he left around one a.m. or so.”

“Huh.”

“Problem?”

“I didn’t know he was closing out the place.”

“He had some things on his mind.”

“Did he happen to mention them?”

“We’re friendly, but he didn’t have much to say.”

“Any of it pertain to a bunch of rhubarb getting massacred?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“All right. Well, I’m sorry to get you out of bed at this hour. If there’s anything else that I need to know, I’ll get in touch.”

“Happy to help, chief.” He glanced again at the door. There was something back there making him nervous. Something he didn’t want me to ask him about.

“Oh, and one more thing?”

“Yes?”

“What’s behind the door?”

“That door?” He pointed.

“No, the other door you keep looking at like a nervous schoolboy with a closet full of smuggled porn.”

“Right. That door. Just my bed.” He walked across the long room, his bare feet making no noise against the old timbers. He tugged on the latch and opened it.

I followed him. Glanced out at the railing and wooden balcony. The heavy scent of salt water and green things curled up around me. The floor was a hatch and it was shut. I bent, yanked it up on hinges that moved easily.

Stairs stepped downward into darkness. Water, wrinkled and black, rolled, lit by the thin yellow light from his boat anchored right beside the building.

“What don’t you want me to see down there?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Or?”

“Well, I’m…entertaining tonight. Or I would be if you’d get out of here.”

“Do I know this person?”

He shook his head. “We met up at the casino a few weeks ago.”

“She have a name?”

“Margot Lapointe.”

I frowned, searching my memory. “Blonde in a cowboy hat? Has those purple feather extensions woven in her hair?”

He nodded. “That’s her.”

I’d seen her around town, down with Lila Carson, who used to own an interior design store and here in the bar once or twice. “I need you to tell her to step out where I can see her.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“Because you don’t believe me?”

“Because I either hear her say you’ve been here all night with her, or I search the premises for signs of explosives, starting with the boat.”

“Without a warrant?”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, it’s more of a friendly look about.”

“They teach you that in cop school?”

“Nope. I learned to be a good friend in kindergarten.” I gave him a winning smile.

He sighed. “I don’t know how fast you think I can get across town to blow something up, but trust me—I’m not one of the beasts in Ordinary gifted with super speed.”

“Not even in a rubber suit with flippers?”

He scowled. “Like I’d need one. And if I did, it’d at least be aerodynamic. Millicent might have been an artist, but that monster suit…” He just shook his head in disbelief.

“Price of living a secret life. You don’t get to complain when you’re portrayed incorrectly in a movie. You gonna call Margot out now so you can alibi out of this?”

“Since you asked so friendly-like.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, typed something into it, turned the screen.

It said:
Margot, could you come out on the deck? Have a friend who wants to say hi.

“See? Friend,” I said.

“Didn’t want to tell her the cops are here. We aren’t really at the tell-me-about-your-past-convictions stage of the relationship. Before you ask, she’s been here since about eleven.”

“Ryder saw her with you?”

“Yes.”

The light swung wildly against the pilings, as someone walked out onto the aft of the boat. A face bobbed into view. Blonde, pretty, no cowboy hat. The lavender feathers in her hair shifted in the breeze. Margot had a beer in one hand, a lantern in the other, and no pants on under a large red Jump Off Jack T-shirt that reached her knees.

“Hello?” Margot called. “Chris?”

“Hey, Margot. This is my friend Delaney. She just wanted to make sure we weren’t breaking the law.”

Margot laughed. “I promise I’m over twenty-one, officer. Do you need to see my license?” She put down the lantern, and in so doing lit up the inside of her T-shirt so that every very naked curve of her was accentuated in shadow play against the thin cloth.

She had a good body.

Chris grunted like someone had punched him in the gut.

“Where’s my purse? Hold on, let me get my hands free.” She straddled the lantern now, and downed the beer in one long continuous pull before looking around for where to put the empty bottle. She was a little wobbly on her feet. I wondered how many beers she’d had.

“You done with the questions, chief?” Chris asked, his voice gone low.

“Margot, have you been here all night?”

“Up there in the taproom for drinks. Down here for dessert.” She giggled. “Wait! My purse is next to the bed. Should I get it? I have a gun.”

“What?” Chris and I said at the same time.

“Glock 19. A girl can’t be too careful.”

Chris’s eyes went a little wide. Then he just grinned again. Apparently he liked a woman who knew how to look after herself.

“Are you licensed to carry?” I asked.

She nodded and gave me what she probably hoped passed for a serious look. “Gun range every month. Safety first. But I’m a little tipsy. Don’t wanna take it out of the holster.”

“Is it loaded?” Chris asked, taking the words out of my mouth.

She chuckled. “Not much use to me if it isn’t.”

“Do you have anything else with you, Margot?” I asked. “Explosives, maybe?” Yeah, I knew she couldn’t have gotten out to Dan’s house and back here in the amount of time it took to set off the explosion, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to see if she had another line of defense in her Louis Vuitton.

“Uh…explosives? No. One gun. That’s it, I swear.” She blinked hard and looked up at Chris, clearly confused.

“She’s joking,” he said.

I wasn’t, but Margot smiled, then laughed, snorting. Okay, maybe she was a little more than tipsy.

Chris grinned down at her, then gave me the side eye. “Anything else?”

I decided to give the poor guy a break. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Good. Because I haven’t. Lock the door on the way out.” Chris slipped past me and flowed down the stairs like a professional trapeze artist.

He jumped the short distance between the last step and the boat, landing with just enough momentum for him to wrap his arms around Margot, lift her off her feet, and carry her off in one smooth motion.

Margot squealed, giggled, and then both of them were gone from view.

I stood there staring into the darkness, listening to the rhythmic lap of waves, and suddenly felt more alone than I had in years.

I dropped the hatch and dusted my hands.

“At least someone’s having a good night.” I left the warehouse the way I’d come in, and locked the door behind me.

Chapter 3

I SAT outside the brewery, finished up my notes about the conversation with Chris and Margot, and debated driving to Ryder’s house. It was almost five o’clock on a Monday morning. He might be up already. Might be at work already. I could wait a bit and meet him at his office.

Or he might be at home sleeping off his night at the bar.

I flipped down my visor and stared at myself in the lighted mirror. Clear blue eyes with tiny flecks of green stared back at me from out of the smudges of too many sleepless nights. There was a little too much shadow under my cheekbones.

“Dad wouldn’t have worried about waking up someone he needed to question. It doesn’t matter that he’s… It doesn’t matter that he’s Ryder. He’s a witness, so he gets treated the same as any other witness.”

Mirror me looked as unconvinced as I felt. So I kept staring at her until she looked like the professional cop she was.

Myra, Jean, and I had been training under our dad since we were eighteen. Which for me meant I’d been at this job in one form or another for eight years. I knew how to interview a witness.

Pep talk over, I was soon parked in front of Ryder’s house, a nice two-story log cabin on the shore of Lake Easy, just east of town.

Ryder had built the house, with its deck overlooking the lake, with his father before he was out of high school. His dad had moved to Florida just after that and given the house to Ryder as a graduation gift. Ryder rented out the prime bit of real estate for the six years he’d been in college, then for the two he’d lived in Chicago, working for an architectural firm.

Ryder had a way with details, taking a big picture and a pile of random pieces and somehow making them all fit together like it was never a puzzle to solve in the first place. That quality and an artistic eye had landed him a job with one of the top architecture firms in Chicago.

He’d come back to Ordinary a year ago with a client list of his own. I knew he had people wanting his work all over the Pacific Northwest, but he seemed to be trying to spend most of his time here, in his hometown, doing work for easily a third of what he could get paid elsewhere.

I didn’t know why.

He’d come back to town with a duffel bag, a career, and even though I had never admitted it to anyone, my heart.

Ryder fit right back in to the small town pace and life, setting up shop out of a building on Main Street next to the town’s quilt shop and dinosaur museum. Not that Ordinary was on the edge of a building boom or likely ever would be. Vacationing gods liked to keep the town from growing too large.

But that meant Ryder was out of town fairly often at other projects in the state. When our local paper had asked him why he hadn’t set up shop in Portland or Seattle, he’d just smiled and said he needed some time away from the big-city rat race and where better to get away from it all than Ordinary?

The neighborhood was quiet at this hour. A few small windows lit up and birdsong began to stir the air. The scent of salt was fresher here, lake air swallowing it down to a sweetness that spoke of forest and shade and deep, clear water.

I resisted the urge to check my hair in the rearview mirror.

I hadn’t been sleeping well lately and a pot of coffee had replaced two of my three square meals.

Dad would be disappointed in my lack of self-care. Maybe it was time to make some changes.

I made a mental note to pick up some pastries on the way into the station. Pastries were always a step in the right direction.

“All right, stop stalling,” I said to the thin air. “Let’s see if Ryder can corroborate Chris’s story.”

I strolled up the concrete path to the porch. I hadn’t even put on deodorant or brushed my teeth this morning. I dug in my pocket for a mint then rang the doorbell.