Dangerously Dark, page 8
Nope. Wait a second. The birds were there, chirping away in that brainless way they do. Okay, I was getting carried away again, creating a threatening atmosphere where none existed.
But I’ve told you about the eerie deserted-carnival vibe at the cart pod. It wasn’t that difficult to talk myself into being creeped out. Especially when I glanced toward Churn PDX and the trailer where Declan had drawn his last chilly breaths.
Why had he been there so early (or so late)? Surely, topping off Carissa’s equipment with liquid nitrogen wasn’t a task that typically happened in the wee hours of the morning, was it?
Inescapably lured closer, I switched directions and veered toward Carissa’s Airstream trailer. There was no one around to see me snooping, so the timing was right. Plus, my philosophy is that if something scares you, you have to confront it.
Unless you’re talking about birds. In that case, run.
Holding my breath, I circled the trailer. There wasn’t any sign that anything unusual had happened there yesterday. There wasn’t even any police tape surrounding it. The authorities had determined that Declan’s death was an accident. With no evidence to suggest otherwise, they’d had no reason to investigate.
That didn’t mean I didn’t. Nosily, I tried the trailer’s door. Disappointingly, its latch held firm. I couldn’t open it.
What I needed was Danny, plus his lock-picking skills.
Officially, of course, I disapproved of him using his less-than-lawful talents, especially on my behalf. But I couldn’t deny that Danny’s expertise came in handy sometimes. Thwarted in my quest to examine the inside of Carissa’s trailer, I looked around.
No one was in sight. With a flash of inspiration, I bent and turned over a rock, looking for a spare key. Carissa must have stashed one nearby. She’d never been the most organized of college students, so she’d have wanted a backup. You know that recurring nightmare you have, where you’re back in school and you’ve forgotten an exam—maybe even forgotten to attend an entire class for a whole semester? Well, that was Carissa in a nutshell. Scatterbrained but lovable . . . and always able to talk even the most hard-nosed professors into giving her more time.
Unfortunately, all I unearthed were a couple of worms and some topsoil. I muttered a swearword and straightened, brushing my hands on the back of my jeans. Yuck. Not only was I was no closer to getting into the trailer, but I was dirty now, too.
I turned to leave and almost stepped on something. Something furry. I yelped. It screeched, then streaked away.
Almost upended by my attempts not to step on whatever it was, I flailed my arms. My heart pounded. I put my hand on my chest and breathed hard, wondering if surprise could be fatal.
“What are you up to out here?” someone asked behind me.
Tomasz Berk. I turned to face him. Shakily.
He must have seen the whole embarrassing thing.
I had no excuse for my snooping. So I did what anyone would have done. I went on the offensive. “What are you doing out here?” I demanded, hands on my hips.
He gave a lazy grin, then lifted something in his right hand. A plastic bowl. “Feeding the pod’s resident cat, Chow.”
It had been a cat I’d almost tromped on. Whew. “Of course you’re feeding the cat, cat chow. What else would it eat?”
“No, her name is Chow. She’s a stray, but we feed her.”
Of course they did. Of course he did. Just the way Tomasz looked out for Cartorama’s vendors, he cared for the cat, too.
It was hard not to like a guy with those credentials.
He gazed at me. Affably. “What are you hoping to find?”
I remembered my blatant, inexcusable attempt to either break into Churn PDX or locate Carissa’s spare key and let myself inside. What was wrong with me? One murder (maybe two) and I’m not myself anymore. Usually, I’m a live-and-let-live type. Frankly, I’m on the road too much to get overinvolved.
It seemed that suspicious deaths had a way of bringing out my nosy side. I wasn’t proud of it. But I couldn’t deny it.
“I think I dropped my earring over here yesterday,” I lied.
Yep, not proud of that, either. Until I knew more, it was better to keep my cards close to my chest. I hadn’t done that at Maison Lemaître, and it had gotten me into trouble. Not that I suspected Tomasz of any particular wrongdoing. I didn’t want to.
Especially not when he was looking at me that way, all warm and interested, with his finely muscled forearms showcased by his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Today’s barman ensemble featured skinny black pants, a button-down shirt, and a dapper vest, plus excellent brogues. I’d say one thing for Tomasz—he had superior taste in men’s footwear. The rest of him said thrift store, but his feet said they’d been custom shod on Savile Row in London.
Or maybe I was just channeling my mom’s Anglophilia, dressing up Tomasz Berk in exactly the clothing that would have impressed her. Which was dumb, really. I wasn’t going to bring a Portland mixologist home to meet my parents. For one thing, my mom and dad have developed a pretty solid (and understandable) skepticism about my transient urges to settle down with someone.
They know it won’t last. But I’m always an optimist.
“Aha, I noticed you looking around for something.” Tomasz bought my fabrication without blinking. He hooked his thumb toward Muddle + Spade. “My windows overlook the cart pod. See?”
I glanced at those pristine renovated-warehouse windows and wanted to scamper away like the stray cat, Chow, had. Tomasz really had seen everything. I might have fancied myself an amateur sleuth, but I had a long way to go before I had any idea how to “investigate” matters with any degree of stealth.
Right now, hunches were all I had. That, and dead ends. For all my prowling around, I hadn’t turned up any information yet.
On the other hand, that could change quickly, I knew.
“You’re coming inside, though, right?” Tomasz’s eyes twinkled at me. “Everybody’s already there, having brunch.”
Carissa’s engagement brunch. “It’s still happening?”
I’d thought it would be canceled. But if it was on, that explained why Austin had been in a hurry to get to the bar.
I’d been so busy suspecting him, I hadn’t questioned that. Or gotten myself ready to attend the same event. My skulking-around clothes weren’t exactly dressy. I was geared up for a regular Sunday in the Pacific Northwest, not a gala brunch.
“Well, now it’s more of a memorial for Declan than anything else.” Tomasz put his hands in his pockets, then glanced up at me from beneath his dark brows. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
At that, I felt suffused with sorrow. And shame. Plus regret. Carissa was dealing with the realities of her fiancé’s death, and I was goofing around, pretending to be Miss Marple.
But there was still time to set things right. I had to stop overdramatizing everything and start being there for my friend.
“Of course I’m coming inside.” I bent and scooped up a pebble (aka my “earring”) for the sake of maintaining my alibi. Then I marched off toward Muddle + Spade, leaving Tomasz to catch up with me.
Inside Muddle + Spade, I expected to find sadness and shock, anecdotes about Declan, and reminiscences of times past.
Instead, I walked into a riot of laughter and feasting, togetherness and mutual support. Everyone was there. Carissa sat at the center, with Austin, Lauren, some vendors I recognized from yesterday but hadn’t met, and (now) me and Tomasz gathered around her. Even Janel was involved—circulating with a pitcher of mimosas like a waitress, sure—but still, she was included.
They were all seated at one of the bar’s big, roughhewn communal tables, with a row of Mason jars full of lighted candles for a centerpiece and plates of food all around. The aromas wafting upward from the spread—savory, sweet, spicy, and everything in between—made my stomach rumble. I was reminded that I’d been so eager to get to Cartorama (and make sure my rental car hadn’t been towed or sabotaged) that I hadn’t stopped for a nosh. It looked as though Tomasz’s kitchen staff had the cure for that, though. I spied skillet scrambles, plates of French toast, pastries and fruit bowls, granola, and juice.
And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. (Hurray!)
Everything was being served tapas-style, to be shared. It was plain that everyone was used to that custom, because they didn’t hesitate to dig right in. Sunshine streamed in through the bar’s windows. Indie music played subtly in the background. Everyone chattered away, their conversations creating a low hum.
If I hadn’t known better—if I’d arrived today instead of yesterday—I’d have sworn nothing tragic had happened at all.
“Well, I guess now I can blow off my diet!” Carissa dug into a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, forking two of them onto her plate. “Sayonara, custom-fitted wedding dress!”
Her manic glee didn’t bother anyone else, but I swear I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I realized that Carissa might have been crash dieting in preparation for her wedding—so she was probably legitimately hungry—but shouldn’t she have been a little more, I don’t know, grief-stricken?
Concerned, I went straight to her. “Carissa, how are you?”
“Starving!” She hugged me tightly, then pulled back. “You?”
I couldn’t believe she was asking me that, just as though this were any ordinary day. I struggled to regroup. Carissa merely blinked at me, her face fixed in a pleasant expression.
My gaze darted to Austin. Without saying a word, he gave me the universal drinky-drinky symbol, pantomiming someone knocking back alcohol.
I frowned. Austin nodded, almost imperceptibly.
I understood. Carissa’s amiable mood had been helped along by something, likely antidepressants prescribed by her doctor. Or a few of Janel’s mimosas. Or maybe (unwisely) both.
“I’m fine.” Truly, I was worried about Carissa. Her face looked slightly drawn, her eyes swollen, her cheeks pale. I searched for something to do to help, not wanting to fall back on the old “what can I do for you?” routine, which put the onus on the grieving to orchestrate their own relief. “More mimosa?”
Argh. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead. The last thing (possibly medicated) Carissa needed was to get hammered.
I searched the table for another tactic, but I was too late.
“Yes, thanks!” My friend held out her glass to me.
Unprepared, I looked for Janel with the mimosa pitcher. Instead, amid all the frivolity and sociability, I saw Danny.
I blinked. I had to be imagining things.
But no. There he was, all burnished muscles, militarily short dark hair, and perceptive eyes. Right now, his eyes were sizing me up, undoubtedly seeing all the tumult I’d put myself through so far this morning. Danny knows me like no one else.
He could see that I’d woken up a wreck. That I’d already been rebuffed by a kindly nerd. That I’d been discovered while trying (and failing) to stage a clue-gathering trailer break-in.
Danny gave me a nod, then returned his attention to Lauren.
He was seated next to her, sure, but that was no excuse.
As I tried to process all that, Janel swooped in to refill Carissa’s mimosa. I caught her eye and mouthed a thank you.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a plus-one!” Carissa beamed at me. I began to have doubts about her doctor’s judgment in prescribing anything for her. She seemed . . . agitated. Leaning nearer, Carissa gestured for me to stoop closer. I did.
“Especially one who’s so cute!” she bellowed with a wink at Danny, my supposed “date” for the occasion.
I’m not going to sugarcoat things. Carissa’s elation was kind of unnerving. I got goose bumps all over again.
“After this, Declan’s funeral is going to be a major downer!” Carissa chortled. She quaffed her drink. “More, please!”
Janel rushed to oblige, but I couldn’t take any more.
“Sorry. I’ll be right back,” I muttered, then I made my escape to the ladies’ room and left the macabre party behind me.
If I knew Danny, he’d catch my signal and follow me. I wanted to know what he was doing there, but I didn’t want to cause a scene—or interrupt his tête-à-tête with Lauren.
At least now I knew why he’d been unreachable earlier, though: because he’d been on a plane on his way to see me.
I was trying to shake out a second (and hopefully more effective) dose of an over-the-counter analgesic from the bottle in my bag when the door to the ladies’ room whooshed open behind me.
I dropped everything in fright. My bottle of painkillers clattered to the floor, spilling extra-strength caplets like confetti. My purse followed, dropping like a stone into a soapy splash of water on the floor, just as someone walked in.
I swore and bent to retrieve everything. I’d perched my bag on the edge of Muddle + Spade’s square, polished-concrete sink basin. That obviously meant it hadn’t had a chance. Wishing I still owned my trusty crossbody bag—which had seen me through more countries than I could count without nose-diving into some soapsuds—I scooped my things into my inferior backup bag.
This was why restaurants should quit installing those trendy, unusual-shaped sinks. They were impractical at best and nonfunctional at worst. A sink that failed at the essential job of helping to hold up your possessions while you washed your hands was no good to anyone. You had one job, sink, I thought as I glowered up at it. Now I can’t even take care of my headache.
I didn’t think a single caplet had stayed in the bottle.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I startle you?” The newcomer bent alongside me to gather a few strays. “Here, let me help you.”
Lauren. I recognized her seductive, striptease-worthy voice. Not to mention her high, pointy-toe pumps and the 1950s-era spangled dress that went swimmingly with it. On anyone without her verve, the whole ensemble would have looked silly.
On her, with her bodacious bod, it looked fantastic. I’m not the sequins-and-sparkles type, but I almost wanted to be.
I couldn’t help wondering if she’d purposefully followed me to keep me and Danny apart a little longer. They’d looked really cozy earlier. Lauren obviously hadn’t cared that my erstwhile bodyguard had announced himself as my date for the brunch.
“Lauren! Thanks, but don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
She helped me anyway, cheerfully risking her flawless manicure in the process. I couldn’t stop sneaking glimpses at her equally impeccable hair and makeup. The effect was artificial, sure, but coupled with Lauren’s genuine aura of vulnerability and kindness, it somehow worked. I wanted to dismiss her as a cosplay Dita Von Teese, but I couldn’t do it.
“Here. Take some of mine.” While I’d been dissecting her look, Lauren had been searching in her own vintage handbag for something. She pressed a couple of pain reliever tablets into my palm, then gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. Her fretful gaze met mine. “Let me guess, rough night last night?”
“I’d say so—or I would, if I remembered it more clearly.”
I’d apparently whooped it up all afternoon, then slept all night and partway into the morning to make up for it.
Lauren gave me a sympathetic, red-lipsticked moue. “You’ve got to watch it when Tommy’s tending bar. He’s been known to mix the drinks a little stronger—or weaker—depending on the needs of the day.” She gave me a commiserating look. “He’s our very own gorgeous Dr. Feelgood,” she purred, “making sure we all feel just as good as we possibly can. He’s sweet that way.”
“Yeah, sweet.” I risked swallowing the analgesic she’d given me, reasoning that nobody would try to kill me now, just steps away from where Declan had (maybe) been murdered. It would look too suspicious. “I’d rather have known about Tomasz’s unconventional bartending theories before he served me, though.”
“Oh, Tommy doesn’t roll that way. Not if he’s decided you’re one of us.” Gaily, Lauren waved. Her slightly husky voice wrapped me in its sultry embrace, making “Tommy’s” philosophy sound perfectly reasonable. Considerate, even. “It’s his way of taking care of everybody. You get used to it after a while.”
Maybe. But I didn’t think I’d get used to Lauren calling a grown man “Tommy.” Berk probably liked it, though. Some men went in for that baby-talk routine. Even men . . . like Danny? He’d seemed pretty into Lauren a few minutes ago at the brunch table.
As soon as we were out of here, he owed me some answers.
“So . . .” Lauren glanced over her shoulder, her husky voice echoing off all the porcelain, concrete, and tile in the bathroom. “I just thought I’d sneak in here to warn you—you know, girl to girl.” Her voice lowered to an even more intimate timbre. “Watch out for Austin, okay? You don’t know him, but—”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Austin?”
I couldn’t imagine what I had to fear from helpful, endearing, guy-next-door Austin Martin. I mean, yes, I’d been suspicious of him earlier, that’s true. But hearing Lauren voice similar reservations somehow laid all mine to rest.
“He’s not someone you want to mess around with,” Lauren insisted. “Carissa’s already had more than one run-in with Austin. He seems harmless, but he tends to get attached easily. Too easily. Then, when a girl doesn’t return his feelings . . .”
She let her voice trail away ominously, leaving me to draw my own (seemingly inevitable) conclusions.
Was she intimating that Austin was dangerous?
“I wouldn’t have said anything,” Lauren assured me, “except I saw the familiar way you two looked at one another out there.”
I remembered Austin giving me the drinky-drinky sign to let me know he thought Carissa had taken something to get her through today’s brunch. I wasn’t sure how he would know that, though.
Unless Carissa had friend-zoned him. Then Austin would know all the details of how Carissa was coping. Or maybe Austin’s acquaintance with Declan’s family meant he had the inside scoop?
