Honey House (7 page)

****

KC,

When I started investigating this article, I was convinced everything was a hoax. Not anymore. Some of it is, but not all. I’m about to change the world here, and it scares the shit out of me.

I’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow, but first, as the saying goes, I have to see a man about a dog. I’m more sorry than I can possibly say for the things in the article about you and your family. I think I can fix the damage to you, if you’ll let me, but we need to talk. I know I don’t deserve it, but please give me a second chance. I’ll share what I’ve learned. I expected to have more control over things. Now I just don’t know.

JB

I fingered the paper, tracing the cramped cursive, imagining Jason hurriedly scratching the note and leaving it in my room. It had been propped on the mantle with my initials scrawled on the front, waiting for me to take notice. Jason must have come in while I was putting out the coffee or after I left to run with Gregory this morning. That meant it was one of the last things he’d done before he was killed. Before he was murdered, I corrected. Quinn had been very clear on that point, that someone had murdered Jason. From the way he was asking questions, it seemed he thought I was a likely candidate.

It would certainly be a popular solution if Quinn could tie me to the murder. Stranger with a criminal record comes to town; intrepid reporter who outs said criminal is murdered. A very neat formula, if you ask me. Of course, I
knew
I hadn’t killed Jason, which meant there was a murderer running around Juniper Springs. I would need to find the real murderer before Quinn put me in the starring role.

Chapter Six

“Going to see a man about a dog. What the hell could that mean?” I asked for the third time. Owen just looked at me, his soft gray eyes amused.

“What?” I asked, frustration coloring my voice.

“KC, I told you already. It’s just a saying meaning you need to talk with someone. I’m sure Jason didn’t mean he literally needed to talk about a dog. He might not have even meant he was going to talk to a man. It’s just a saying,” he repeated.

Gregory pushed open the French doors with his hip and stepped outside carrying an enormous platter of appetizers to the low-slung patio table. It was my first time at their home and just being here made me feel good. It suited them perfectly. The house was actually a private extension of their store, with the kitchen, dining, and living rooms downstairs, and two bedrooms and an office, plus a lot of storage upstairs. The backyard was an abundance of flowers and herbs, and we sat on the patio watching the sun turn a fiery red, as though angry at being forced to move along and cede its glory to the night.

Snatching a crab stuffed mushroom from the tray, I forced my eyes not to roll back in their sockets from sheer joy at the treat.
Yum.
“Oh God, Gregory, these are delicious. Do you use that oven-thingy to make them?” I asked, only half joking. Cooking was one of many normal skills my foster parents hadn’t bothered with teaching me.

Laughing, Gregory said, “Yes, I used an
oven-thingy
. So can you. All you have to do is heat and serve.”

“Gregory makes them himself and we sell a big batch of them each week. One batch only, so if you want some, you’d better place an order. Gregory makes several of our specialty items. We don’t advertise them, but you can get a list. It’s beyond a doubt the best food in the valley. Several of the local restaurants have tried to lure him away, but he likes the freedom of deciding what to make and when,” Owen said.

“Well, look at you all puffed up and proud,” I said to Owen, but he only had eyes for Gregory. The men exchanged tender smiles, before turning back to me.

“What do you eat, KC? I mean other than the breakfast stuff from here. Do you cook?” Gregory asked.

“I cook, sometimes,” I said, sounding defensive, even to myself.

“What’s the last thing you cooked?” Gregory challenged.

“Uhm…ramen?” I offered.

“Seriously, KC,” Gregory gave a derisive snort, “I don’t think I’ve seen you in the store, lately. What did you have for dinner last night?”

“Leftovers,” I said brightly, pleased to have an answer that would let me slip out of this embarrassing conversation.

Gregory narrowed his eyes. “Leftover what?”

Shit.
With I sigh, I admitted, “A yogurt and bagel left over from breakfast.”

Once Gregory stopped laughing, he retrieved an order form from the kitchen. “This is what I’m making next week. Appetizers, chicken, and wild rice soup, and I think for you I’ll add a big field greens salad. I cook on Mondays, so the food will be with your Tuesday morning delivery. I’ll send some real leftovers from dinner tonight over in the morning, so you don’t starve between now and Tuesday. Owen, honey, will you make sure that gets put into KC’s order in the morning?”

Owen’s eyes sparkled at his lover’s mothering. “Congratulations, KC, on becoming Gregory’s latest stray. I’m afraid there’s no peace for you, now. Before you know it, he’ll know everything there is to know about Katherine Carmichael. Hell, he’s gonna want to approve your dates from now on.”

It was my turn to snort. “Even if I was interested in dating, the prospects are pretty slim pickings. The only ones that have shown any interest in me are you two…and well, you’re both already taken.” I smiled, and then quickly changed the subject.   

“So what do you think Jason meant?” I asked, worrying at the question once more.

“What did Quinn say?” Owen asked.

I said nothing, but Gregory gasped. “You bad thing! You didn’t tell the big, old sheriff, did you? He is one seriously fine piece of man. Too bad Quinn doesn’t swing this way. He would certainly warm up a cold winter night. Do you think he’s as big as that faded patch on his jeans makes him out to be?”

“What patch?” I asked innocently. Of course, I knew exactly what faded patch he was talking about. Quinn hung seriously left. “The sheriff and I have a mutual understanding. He doesn’t like me and I don’t like him. Besides, I think Susan might object.”

Gregory and Owen both laughed good-naturedly.

“There’s no love lost between the two of them. Susan has been trying to get her hands on him ever since he arrived. He’s the original artful dodger,” Gregory said. “In fact, I don’t actually know where he gets his itch scratched. He plays up to Susan when there’s a social need, but really, he treats all the women with the same aloofness. But he doesn’t set off my gaydar either. He’s certainly not asexual. No, it’s definitely women, and personally I think the little bristle thing between the two of you is just stoking the fire. Eventually, the two of you will ignite.”

“Not going to happen, Romeo,” I said to Gregory. “He’s not my type.”

“What type is that?” Owen asked.

“Not a cop.” When the laughter settled I went right back to where my thoughts had been all day. “Okay, you two, truth between us. Did Jason come to visit you for his article series?”

With a sigh, Owen said, “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope. And no prevaricating. Did Jason interview you or try to interview you?”

They exchanged a long look before Gregory finally answered. “Yes. He interviewed Owen the first visit. Since we don’t do anything with the paranormal trade, neither of us was particularly worried about what he might ask. He asked some background questions, trying to get some local color. It wasn’t any big deal.”

There was just a flicker of his eyes. Down and to the right, just for an instant before returning unflinching to meet my gaze. It was a tell. I’d play poker with Gregory any day of the week. He was lying.

“Was that the only time you spoke with him?”

“Yes, it was the only time he was here.” Again, Gregory answered for the both of them.

“Did he ever call either of you?”

Owen sighed, and I knew he’d just decided to tell me something he hadn’t wanted to.

“He called, KC. He called a couple of times. He wanted to know about food deliveries to the Were Ranch.”

“The Way They Were?” I confirmed. When they both nodded, I sat back and nibbled on another mushroom, and looked at them expectantly.

“Look, KC. All he wanted to know was how much food they ordered and how it got to the ranch. It’s a weekly order; they pick it up. No big deal. Now, let’s go eat dinner.” Gregory led the way inside.

As we sat down to a scrumptious meal of grilled salmon and artichokes, my one-track mind hit overdrive. “Who else did Jason interview?”

“Your favorite gal-pal, Susan,” Gregory answered.

I wrinkled my nose. I wouldn’t look forward to talking with her. “Anyone else? Did anyone refuse to talk with him?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know if he actually spoke to anyone at the ranch,” Owen said slowly. “Just that he wanted to. I think he was going to that new-age palmistry and crystal shop on Main. He said something at the dinner party about Vortex Infusions. And of course, he must have visited the new business by Ted Sparks.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Ted Sparks? The one that was running the sweat lodges? He’s in jail, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” said Gregory. “Awaiting trial, as they say. But, I guess he has to pay for his defense. He’s the name behind ‘The Rapture.’ It’s supposed to be a spiritual healing that uses the hidden hot springs. I guess the theory is the same as the sweat lodge. Go squeeze into a hot, over-crowded space and listen to canned messages from the leader. Come out all rosy and inspired to hand even more money over to Sparks and his people.

“Now, if you don’t mind, KC, I’d like to talk about something other than scams. So, tell me. How are you loving Juniper Springs? Any desire to go into the big city?”

We spent the rest of the evening drinking a good Pinot Noir, talking about books and movies, and offering our own expert opinions on the personal lives and styles of celebrities. When it was time to go home, I stood, stretched, and declined the offer of a ride. I walked down the path that led through their yard. Looking back at the patio as I closed the gate, I saw that Gregory had moved closer to Owen on the couch, and Owen dropped an arm over the smaller man’s shoulders. I envied their closeness. I didn’t know what it was like to feel that connection with another. It wasn’t sexual. It was comforting, supportive. I sighed and walked home, feeling the kiss of coolness hidden in the breeze.

****

Quinn was waiting when I reached the Honey House.
Swell.
I’d had too much to drink to spar with him. I let a bone-weary sigh carry my thoughts at having him here, before I asked, “What do you want, Sheriff?”

“I have a few more questions, Miss Carmichael. May I come in?”

“Won’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ve had a pleasant evening and I’d like to curl up with a nightcap to relax before I go to bed,” I said.

“An excellent suggestion,” he said. As he reached around me to grab the door handle the lock snicked open—then Quinn herded me inside. The House and I were going to have to have a talk.

“Actually, I thought I was suggesting we wait until tomorrow.”

“And here I thought I would join you for a nightcap.” Without waiting for my undoubtedly slack-jawed response, Quinn led the way to my apartment, leaving me to hurry down the hall behind him. It wasn’t all bad, since it gave me the opportunity to study ‘The Great Behind,’ as Gregory liked to call it. It
was
a great ass. But then again, so was the sheriff. A great ass, indeed.

Quinn put his arm out, preventing me from barging into my own apartment. Quietly, he said, “Why don’t you let me go through the door first? Just in case.” Without waiting for my answer, he went through the doorway, his hand on his weapon.

Shit.
Did Quinn think someone was in there? Is that why he was here?

He scanned the downstairs rooms and looked a silent question at me. I nodded my permission for him to check upstairs. I might not like cops, but I wasn’t stupid. If Jason’s killer was hanging around, I’d let Quinn introduce himself first.

When he’d confirmed that the place was empty of murderers, he walked to the kitchen and unerringly opened the cabinet where I stored the liquor. Of course, it was directly over a small wine rack, so maybe it wasn’t that big of a deduction.

“Make yourself at home, Sheriff,” I said sarcastically. “How about a drink?”

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” He brought out two glasses, and I heard the bottles shift as he looked over my selection. I was curious to know why he was here and even more curious to see which booze he selected.

He poured us each a generous glass of Macallan, and my estimation of him went up. It was the most expensive bottle in the cabinet. Then he drank his down in a quick gulp and poured another even more generous glass for himself, before he brought my glass to me.

“Care to sit outside, while we talk?” he asked quietly.

His honey-gold eyes were dull with something. Fatigue, maybe? The smart-ass comment died on my tongue. “Sure,” I said, and opened the French doors to the deck and led the way. Two steps down, I realized we would be overlooking the path where Jason died. Three steps down I tripped over something that shouldn’t have been there.

I looked down and an embarrassingly girly scream ripped from my throat. There was a dead dog stretched out on the third step. A very bloody dead dog.

****

Two hours later, I was huddled on the corner of my couch in front of a fire and sipping another whisky. I’d wrapped a throw around my legs to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the day I’d had.

Quinn had been outside ever since we’d found the dog. I knew there were others out there with him, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to go back outside. It was ridiculous to be this upset over a dog. I’d touched the first body I’d found today, and that turned out to be someone I knew. This was some stray or maybe someone’s pet, and here I was feeling as if I would cry.
Shit.
I brushed at the tear that escaped and closed my eyes to hold back the flood.