Secrets Don't Sink, page 4
“After all this time of him sending mixed messages, he decides to make a move in the middle of you discovering your ex-boyfriend is dead. You’re right, that is strange.”
“That’s not the strangest part either.”
She arched her left brow.
“Last night, he got all weird when I told him I’m looking into Chattertowne’s past and running into resistance.”
“Weird, how?”
“He demanded to know every detail I uncover for my story.”
“Maybe he’s curious.”
“And…he mentioned Renee being jealous of me.” I scanned her face for a reaction.
“So?”
“I didn’t tell him what Marcus said in the message, and he hasn’t lived here long enough to know our history.”
Viv tilted her head. “Hmm. You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. I didn’t even read Marcus’s message until yesterday, and I haven’t mentioned him to Darren before last night because I had no reason to do so. When I called him on it, he said something about typical reactions of women, that he simply assumed she would be jealous of an ex.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“My circuits are fried right now. I’m not sure I could place a Starbucks order in my current state, much less accurately analyze the behavior of the most enigmatic man I’ve ever met.”
“If something feels off to you, pay attention to it.”
“On that note, I’m going to hop in the shower.”
“What’s your day like today?”
“I’m headed to City Hall to meet with a woman at the Chamber of Commerce; then I have lunch with Darren. How about you? Did you make that dentist appointment?”
“I forgot. I’ll do it this afternoon.”
“Viv,” I scolded.
“Audrey, I’m not a child.”
I sighed, choosing not to argue the point. “Are you working tonight?”
“I’ve got back-to-back performances.”
“If I get done with all my stuff at a reasonable time, I’ll head over there for the second show.”
“I’m adding a few melancholy classics, like Dorothy Moore’s ‘Misty Blue.’ Seems appropriate for the somber mood in this town right now.” Viv ran her fingers through her hair.
“Good choice.” I stood and stretched.
“Hey, Audrey?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep your head on a swivel today. If there really is a killer on the loose, and they know you’ve been getting messages from Marcus, you might be in danger too.”
I hadn’t considered the possibility, but Viv’s warning sent a chill down my spine.
I entered City Hall holding a white pastry bag.
“Hi, I’m Audrey O’Connell with The Coastal Current. I’m looking for Peg.”
An emaciated woman, whose nameplate identified her to be Joan, glanced up from her computer. She appeared to be in her fifties with dyed black hair cut in a severe style, which I found unflattering against her sharp angular features. She gave me a wide-eyed and pitying look. “Peg’s on the third floor. Three twenty.”
“Thank you.”
“The pastries from Abigail’s were a good move,” Joan called after me.
Just as the elevator doors were closing, a large hand reached in to stop them. They reopened and Holden stepped inside.
“Hey!” His face lit with a broad smile at the sight of me. “Fancy running into you again so soon.”
He gave me a brief hug. His scent was intoxicating, an unusual combination of pheromones and nutmeg.
“I’m here to talk to Peg about the Kupit Festival.”
He grimaced. “I hope you brought her something sweet.”
I raised the paper bag to indicate my offering. “You’re the third person today who’s warned me not to come empty-handed.”
Holden smiled. “Peg knows this town inside and out. She’s an invaluable asset. Thus, we’ve all learned to work around…ohhh…let’s call it her complicated personality.”
“Maybe I should tie a rope to my ankle before heading into her office. That way you can drag out my lifeless body after she eviscerates me.” I winced. “That was in poor taste. Sorry.”
“You’re fine. Don’t worry; she doesn’t have quite that much power. Lead with the…what exactly did you bring?” He lifted his chin to peek into the bag.
“Marmalade scones from Abigail’s.” I held it open for his perusal.
“Perfect. Lead with the scones.”
The elevator opened to the third floor, and I reluctantly stepped into the hallway. “This is me.”
The elevator door began to shut, but Holden blocked it with his massive shoulder. His intense gaze zapped through me. The elevator buzzed a warning.
“Say a little prayer for me.”
“You’ve got this. Come by my office when you’re done. Two-oh-four.” He smiled again and stepped back inside.
“I will.”
The doors closed. It was then I realized he’d ridden with me to the third floor even though his office was on the second.
In room 320, I found a woman behind a substantial seventies-era oak desk scowling at a piece of paper. Short reddish-brown permed curly hair matching the ruddy color of the walls framed her pale, round, freckled face.
I tapped the doorframe, which was the same honey-colored oak as her desk. The office didn’t appear to have been updated for at least three decades. The woman’s eyes, so tiny their color was indeterminable, squinted at me from behind coke-bottle-thick glasses.
“I’m looking for Peg?”
“What do you want?” Her smoker’s voice had the timbre of a longshoreman.
“I’m Audrey O’Connell. I work for The Coastal Current, and I’m doing a promotional series leading up to Kupit.”
“O’Connell. James and Claudine’s kid?”
“Yes. Mr. Anderson…you know, your ex….”
Peg’s eyes narrowed further.
“He, uh, he said you were the best resource—”
“What’s in the bag?” Peg interrupted with a growl.
“Oh!” I stepped forward. “It’s marmalade scones from Abigail’s. Would you like one?” I held the bag tenuously in front of her.
Peg snatched it from my fingertips and peered inside. Her expression was like a skeptical cat who’d been proffered irresistible treats. She reached in and extracted a scone, consuming the pastry in two large bites, followed by several minutes of quiet chewing and low humming. She pulled out the other scone and put it to her lips. “What do you want from me?” She took another large bite. Marmalade oozed from the corner of her mouth.
“Like I mentioned, I’m working on the Kupit Festival series. I emailed several people in hopes of getting some real insight for this year’s festival, but I didn’t really get far with them. I was told you’ve really got your thumb on the pulse of—”
Peg waved her hand in dismissal. Her cheeks bulged with scone, and her lips were covered in crumbs and sticky orange jam. Rustling in her top desk drawer, she removed a multi-sheet packet stapled together and thrust it at me. The packet contained several pages of names, phone numbers, and emails, along with scheduled activities. It also now had marmalade smudges in the corner.
“Thank you. I did print a copy of this from the Chamber website, but I’m looking for something a little different. I was curious who you feel is the best resource for digging into early town history. I was hoping to get into greater detail, maybe resurrect some stories lost to time. I don’t want to regurgitate the same spiel as every other year.”
Peg eyed me warily and continued chewing for a moment. “You’re not trying to dig up dirt, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know exactly what I mean. You’ve been gone a while, working for that big city paper. I’m sure they paid really well for any scandals you uncovered. That’s not how we do things around here. We protect our own.”
“I grew up here. I am one of your own.”
“Are you?” Peg’s puckered mouth tightened further. “I know your parents, Audrey. Hell, I know everyone in this town. I love this town. I was born here. My parents were born here. My grandparents were born here, and their parents before them. There’s nothing about this town I don’t know, and whatever I don’t know, I don’t wanna know, and I don’t want anybody else to know either. Got it?”
Her eyes glinted with warning. On the wall behind her head hung a framed lithograph of Lucy pulling the football out from under Charlie Brown, which I suspected might be her life philosophy in comic form.
“I understand, but if there are remarkable stories in the archives, I’d like to bring them to light. I swear, I’m not looking for scandal. I believe there’s more to Chattertowne than the standard stories that get dragged out every year. My goal is for people to be more excited to come to the Kupit Festival because of my articles. That benefits everyone, especially the Chamber of Commerce.”
Peg’s eyes constricted until they appeared nearly closed. “You’ll want to talk to Mildred Driscoll at the library. She works in the city records and archives department.”
“Got it. Thank you for all your help.” My tentative smile wasn’t reciprocated.
“Remember, Audrey.” Her voice held an unmistakable tone of warning. “This festival’s a celebration of town history. It’s about preserving tradition, not destroying it.”
I nodded.
“I mean it.” She pointed her finger at me for emphasis and then peeked into the bag once more. “No cinnamon rolls?”
I located room 204 by following Holden’s booming voice. The door was already cracked, so I opened it just enough to poke my head into his office. He was on the phone but smiled and waved me in with his free hand.
“Art, you and I both know how this thing needs to play out.” His tone was firm but not unkind. “I’ll give a little. You’ve got to give a little also.” He covered the phone and mouthed, “One more sec.”
I smiled and nodded as I took a seat.
Unlike Peg’s office, Holden’s had been updated. His walls were a sophisticated dark gray, and his shelves were black. On his mid-century walnut desk, a large purple crystal geode acted as a paper weight. An autographed football was perched on the top shelf, with several smaller picture frames propped on the one below. The others were cluttered with motivational books, binders, and a few novels. His Washington State University diploma hung next to the doorway above a rosewood Omega Psi Phi Fraternity keepsake box. Below that were four empty mounting clips. Conspicuously absent were any photos of his fiancée Emily.
“That’s more like it.” Holden nodded, even though the man on the other end couldn’t see him. “I knew we could find a way to make this work for both of us. Shoot me an email with the revised proposal, and I’ll get it approved at the next council meeting.” He waited for a response and winked at me.
Normally I detested winkers, but for some reason, Holden proved to be an exception.
“You got it, Art. Talk to you soon.”
He turned his attention to me after hanging up the phone. His appraising smile was not without effect.
“I see you survived your encounter with Peg.”
His smile grew wider, revealing straight white teeth. He leaned back with hands clasped behind his head in repose.
“Barely. She’s not one to trifle with. I think…I think she threatened me.” A nervous laugh escaped my throat.
He leaned forward, his smile disappearing. “Threatened you? What do you mean? What did she say?”
“Nothing specific. It was her tone more than anything. She told me to leave certain things in the past, and the implication was if I didn’t, well….”
“Things? What things?”
“That’s what I don’t know. It’s not like she said or else. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m probably being dramatic, making a fuss about nothing.”
“Hmmm. Well, I guess the only thing to do is leave it alone.”
“I guess…” My voice trailed off, along with my eye contact.
Holden chuckled. “That wasn’t convincing.”
“Hey, I’m not gonna go looking for trouble, but if something comes up while I’m researching, I’m not gonna ignore it either. Frankly, her attitude makes me more curious about what secrets Chattertowne is hiding in its archives than before I spoke with her.”
Holden sighed and shook his head. “Be careful, okay? We still don’t know what happened to Marcus, and I’d hate for something to come back to bite you in the rear.” As soon as the words left his mouth, an awkward electricity permeated the room. “So-to-speak.”
I stared into his deep brown eyes. “Nope. Wouldn’t want that.” I reluctantly broke eye contact. “Well, I won’t keep you, and I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”
I turned to leave but stopped when I noticed an open door in the corner of his office.
“You have your own bathroom?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Perks of the job.”
“That explains why you showed up at the docks with wet hair. You showered.” Immediately my cheeks felt warm with embarrassment.
“Your face is bright pink. You’re not picturing me in the shower, are you?”
“Oh, look at the time! See ya, Holden!”
His chuckle echoed behind me as I scurried out of his office.
Chapter Five
I shifted my phone from one ear to the other while Mr. Barnette—the owner of a local windchime business and one of the Current’s advertisers—droned on about social media marketing techniques he’d learned during some online seminar. I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. Thoughts of Marcus and what had happened to him swirled with my confusion over Peg’s veiled threats, Holden’s flirtation, and Darren’s sudden interest.
I sighed, which caused Mr. Barnette to pause.
“Everything okay, dear?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. You were saying you want the article to mention the driftwood you use is hand-picked from the beaches at Ocean Shores and that all your posts contain the hashtag Ocean Shores driftwood.”
He launched again into a long-winded explanation, but I was still only half-listening.
I opened my Facebook app and re-read Marcus’s message, looking for any clues about what he’d been trying to tell me. I heaved another deep sigh in frustration.
“…so, do you?”
I snapped back to attention. “Sure, okay.”
I had no idea what I’d just agreed to.
“Great. Come by later this week, and you can pick out whichever windchime suits you best. I have a feeling you’re gonna like the one I fashioned to look like a mama owl with three baby owls. You kind of have to squint and look at it sideways to see it’s an owl, but you’ll get the general effect.”
Darren poked his head into my office. “Ready for lunch?”
I checked the clock on my computer. It was already three minutes past noon. I covered the receiver.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” I whispered.
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
I ended the call with Mr. Barnette on a promise to visit his workshop to pick out a windchime. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I lived in an apartment without a balcony or patio.
Standing and stretching my arms above my head, I smoothed my maroon-and-navy-plaid flannel shirt and ran my fingers through my long dishwater-blond ponytail.
A critical glance in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my office door revealed the stress of the previous twenty-four hours had taken a toll. My hazel eyes were rimmed with smudged mascara and dark circles. My outfit wasn’t the most flattering to my five-foot-six-inch frame, which my mother described as “large bone structure.” I pulled my ponytail forward and contemplated taking my natural color lighter or darker.
Maybe I’d go red and really spice up my life.
I shook my head and chuckled, knowing I wouldn’t.
One unfortunate spur-of-the-moment department store makeover with a heavy-handed cosmetics rep had convinced me neutrals were my friend. My biggest fashion risk to date was wearing glittery mauve toenail polish encased in closed-toed flats with a coordinating backless dress under a sweater to my cousin’s Bat Mitzvah.
Darren was perched on the edge of a chair in the lobby; his face contorted into a concentrated scowl as he glared at his phone.
Tasha raised an eyebrow and gave me a wicked smirk. I had a vague recollection of making a declaration to her about my infatuation with him at her party the previous weekend.
Darren dropped his phone into his briefcase and jumped to his feet. He slid on his overcoat and grabbed the black leather case by its braided handles. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
He ushered me toward the elevator with his hand firmly on my lower back. “I thought we’d walk to Martini’s. I have a hankering for their deep-fried artichoke hearts.”
“Sounds good.”
The air was mild for a late-winter day in the Pacific Northwest. Nevertheless, I shivered and rubbed my arms. If Darren noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it or offer his coat.
Once inside Martini’s Restaurant, we were escorted to a table near the back. The waiter placed a basket of bread and a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar on the table. He attempted to hand me the menu, but I waved him off.
“I already know what I want. I’ll have the chicken strips and the Riesling.” I put on a self-deprecating smile. “I know. I’ve got the palate of a four-year-old mixed with a nineteen-year-old sorority girl.” I snorted and covered my mouth.
Leaning back, Darren perused the list, ignoring both my snort and my attempt at a joke. “How’s the Chilean Pinot, and does it pair well with the sea bass?” He had the air of someone who knew the difference between acceptable Pinot and unacceptable Pinot.
“That’s one of my favorite pairings, sir.”
“All right, I’ll try that and an order of tempura artichoke hearts to start. So, Audrey.” Darren dismissed the server by turning his attention back to me. “How are you feeling after the events of yesterday?”
