I insisted on taking Diana to lunch instead of returning right away to the festival. I felt we needed a dose of Alex, the third member of our little group and the designated cheerer-upper. I knew he could help me out in the support-a-friend department.
Everyday Grill felt more crowded than usual this time of year. The festival had definitely helped the tourist trade this fall. Shocked once again at the changes Alex had made to the interior of the restaurant, I surveyed the new atmosphere with appreciation. Last summer, he was just an employee and the décor ran toward 1970s dark steak house. After the events of the early summer had resolved, he’d purchased the restaurant at a bargain and was able to put some money into renovations. Now the whole place felt lighter, brighter, and more like Alex.
The menu had been fancied up as well but he left a few old standbys for the regulars.
Diana and I were well-known by the waitstaff so her iced tea and my diet soda arrived almost as soon as we sat down.
Diana sipped her tea and then pushed it away. “I’m not really that hungry.”
“You say that now.” I shoved a menu at her even though we both had it memorized.
I ordered the Cobb salad. Diana, who wasn’t hungry, got the bacon burger with fries. It’s always good to drown stress with grease and fat. I was distracting her with tales of Baxter, my bullmastiff, and his never-ending war with our neighborhood squirrels, when Alex came out of the kitchen. A few inches taller than me, he had the shoulders of a kayaker and the barely contained energy of a toddler. His dark hair was hidden under a white bandanna, but he’d removed his apron. He pulled up a chair and gave Diana a long hug.
“I heard about Rafe. I’m so sorry.”
Diana nodded and attempted a watery smile.
“What have you heard?” I asked, wondering if the whole peanut thing was common knowledge.
“Only that he collapsed and by the time the ambulance guys had hiked through the woods, he was . . .” Alex glanced at Diana and stopped.
She stared at her drink as if she didn’t know what it was. I put my hand over hers, and thought quickly of a way to shift the subject.
“How’s Dylan doing?” I asked her. Dylan Ward was Diana’s brother—Diana had changed her name to Moonward after she opened her store—and until that week, I’d only seen him once in the five years since their parents had died. He’d arrived just in time for the festival and I’d seen him briefly at a couple of the events.
“He seems fine. He and Rafe never got along very well, and he hadn’t seen him in years.” Diana shrugged.
I nodded, but wondered just how well Dylan was doing in other ways. From what Diana had told me over the years, he’d been drifting from place to place, picking up odd jobs along the way. He was an artist and followed the art shows around the country, trekking his wares in a beat-up old Suburban that had been his dad’s. He made leather boxes, clocks, and switch plates. Diana said he did a lot of couch surfing, but it often sounded as though it was more likely he did a lot of squatting in abandoned houses until the neighbors complained. Dylan was seven years younger than Diana and was only eighteen when Elliot and Fiona had died. He had taken it hard and left Crystal Haven the day after the funeral. I’d never fully understood the relationship between Diana and her brother. She was very protective of him. She sent him money whenever he had an address and always had a ready excuse for him when he disappeared for months at a time. I would have thought they’d stick together after the death of their parents, but Diana didn’t seem to mind that he went his own way.
“Dylan was in here earlier talking to Lucan Reed,” Alex said. “It didn’t seem friendly.”
“Lucan? I didn’t know they knew each other,” Diana said. “He’s only been in Rafe’s coven for the past year or so.”
“It didn’t look like a happy reunion. More like a Mexican standoff.”
Diana’s brows drew together. “I wonder what that was about.”
Just as Alex shrugged, the food arrived and he was called back into the kitchen. He headed back to work after promising to stop by the festival for its last day.
*
That night, after a trip to the park with Baxter and a reheated casserole from the last time I was at my mom’s, I checked my phone for messages from Mac. He’d texted to say he’d stop by later. I sat on the four inches of couch that Baxter allowed me and picked up the remote. He groaned and fixed me with his droopy stare. After almost losing him over the summer following his superdog heroics, I had spoiled him. Now he demanded the prime space on the couch and persistently tried to take over the bed.
I’d just clicked onto an FBI missing persons show when I heard a knock on the door. It wasn’t Mac’s usual four-beat rhythm, but I hopped up and swung open the door.