The guilt was overwhelming. To distract myself, I spent the rest of the afternoon in my garden. It was October, harvesttime, and since our weather was relatively mild most of the year, I was looking forward to prepping the garden for a new crop of winter vegetables. It would be a few more weeks before I could do it, though, because all six of my good-sized vegetable beds were still producing veggies from the planting I’d done last spring. And that didn’t even count all the pots of tomatoes and edible herbs I had lined up along the side fence.
All summer I’d been harvesting what I liked to call my salad veggies—lettuces, tomatoes, cucumbers, green onions—almost daily. Now I was eyeing my fall crop of zucchini, spinach, beets, peas, carrots, peppers, and various root vegetables that I planned to roast or turn into cold-weather soups and stews. At one end of the squash bed were a dozen small pumpkins and two massive ones that I hoped would grow even larger for the annual Harvest Festival and Parade at the end of the month.
I had already filled up one large basket with vegetables for soup and was starting to weed the beds when I heard someone call out my name. Glancing up, I saw Mac Sullivan looking over the fence.
“Hi, Mac.” I stood and brushed the soil off my jeans.
“Hey, Irish. You look good in the garden.”
“Thank you.” I smiled as I unlatched the gate. The man said the nicest things. “What’s up?”
“I was hoping you’d show me one of those rooms you rent out.”
I was puzzled. “Are you doing research?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “I’m looking for a place to live.”
“But you just bought a big new house.”
“Can’t live in it until it’s refurbished. Thought I’d look into renting for a while.”
I stared at him. Not that it was a hardship, but I had to wonder if he was pulling my leg. MacKintyre Sullivan could afford the biggest deluxe suite anywhere in the world, so why bother with my little rental? He looked serious, though, so I pulled off my gardening gloves and set them on the side of the raised bed. “I’ll go get the key.”
I came back outside a minute later and led him upstairs to the apartments.
I stopped in front of Wendell’s place and took in the streams of yellow tape strewn across the door.
“Did they say how long they’ll keep it a crime scene?” he asked.
“Eric said his guys will need a few more days to sift through Wendell’s belongings. I didn’t get a chance to look inside, so I have no idea what condition it’s in.”
Mac considered the yellow tape. “I can be like a rabid dog when it comes to doing research, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not stay in the murder victim’s room.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I walked a few more steps and unlocked the door to the second apartment. “This one’s clean and ready for a new tenant.”
He walked inside and glanced around. “This place is great. Lots of good light. Bigger than I thought it would be.”
“It’s basically one big room, but I tried to section it off so it feels like you’ve got several separate areas.”
“I like it,” he said, running his fingers down the matchstick screen that, together with a willowy ficus tree, created a partition between the bedroom and the living room space. “Hey, there’s a desk.”
I shrugged. “A lot of people travel with their computers.”
As I’d done for Wendell over a week ago, I walked across the suite and pulled the blinds open. The view from this room was slightly better than Wendell’s—at least I thought so. There was more to see of the green hills and redwood trees to the south, and the ocean was still in plain sight above the rooftops, too.
“Really nice view,” he said. Pointing, he asked, “Is that an empty lot behind you?”
“Not for long.” I gave him the quick explanation of how I’d bought the property behind my house two years ago. The house had been what we called a cracker box, a run-down little beach shack that was rented out to tourists year after year. Even though cracker-box houses were small, they often sat on lots as big as my own.
In recent years, a buyer would snag one of those houses, tear it down and build a much grander house, an updated Victorian or a Craftsman to match the style and feeling of the town.
I had razed the old house, salvaging as much of the good wood and chimney bricks as I could, and filled the lot with mustard seed to treat the soil until I was ready to plant next year. I envisioned a row of trees along the edges of the property, grass and flower beds in the center, benches and walkways here and there. I wanted to turn it into a small park. I had already conducted a casual survey of my neighbors, who approved of the plan wholeheartedly.
“That’s cool,” he said.
“I like the idea of having a neighborhood park.”
He nodded, glanced around the room again. “Did you do all the work in here?”
“Me and a couple of my guys.”
He ran his finger along the beveled grooves of the decorative wood panel above the small fireplace mantel. “Who did this woodwork?”
“I did.”
“It’s exceptional.” His gaze held on mine. “So you’re also a carpenter.”
“Yes.”
Mac strolled around the room, checked out the kitchenette sink, mini fridge, two-burner electric stove, and microwave oven. He slid the closet door open and closed, popped into the bathroom, and then glanced out the window one more time. “So, how much to rent the place?”
I was still mystified by his interest, but decided to play along. “By the day or by the week?”
“By the month.”
“Oh.” I mentally calculated the price, took off fifteen percent for the long-term rate, and gave him the bottom line.
“Not bad. I’ll take it.”
? ? ?
Later that afternoon, Jane arrived to spend another night with me. She was bursting with excitement and danced around the kitchen as she told me all about her meeting with the landscaper and their plans for her garden.
“It sounds beautiful,” I said. “I love the idea of having a little bridge across the koi pond. And the ferns planted around the bases of the trees will give the space a real magical quality.”
“I know,” she said, and provided more details as I poured two glasses of wine. When I handed her a glass, she asked, “What did you do today?”
“My day wasn’t quite as exciting as yours, but let’s see.” I tried to think of all the positive things while avoiding the missing-hammer news. “I cleaned out the garage, worked in the garden for a while, and rented one of my apartments to a new tenant.”
“You have a new tenant already?” she said, taken aback. “But you just got rid of Wendell— I mean, oh, dear. You know what I mean.”
I tried not to laugh, since the subject was morbid. And she looked so utterly mortified that I knew it would be cruel to tease her. “I know what you meant. And it’s not like I rented out Wendell’s place. I can’t. It’s still a crime scene.”
Her shoulders hunched up and she rubbed her arms. “Just thinking about it gives me goose bumps.”
“Yeah, me too. Anyway, I rented the other apartment.”
She considered it for a moment. “I would’ve thought you might want some privacy for a while.”
“I thought I did, too, but then this guy came around asking if the place was available and I changed my mind.”
“What guy?”
I bit my lip, unsure why I was so hesitant to tell her. Maybe to keep the toasty little secret to myself for a while? But that didn’t make sense. Jane was my oldest and dearest friend and we had no secrets between us. “Mac Sullivan.”
“Oh.” She drew the word out for several syllables.
“Yeah.” Hoping the subject was closed, I walked to the freezer. “I thought we could have chicken for dinner. Do you mind making a salad?”
“I’ll be happy to. But let’s just circle back around to Mac Sullivan for a minute.”
“I figured you might say that.” I pulled out a package of cut-up chicken pieces. I had planned to be sensible and grill them, but now I decided to fry them in a thick cornflake batter. I rarely ate such fattening meals, preferring healthier fruits and vegetables, lean meats, and fish, but lately I’d been going for high fat and calories. Clearly, murder wasn’t good for my diet.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Jane said as she swirled her wineglass. “Mac Sullivan is very cute and hunky and interesting, and he’s a famous author, so it would be awesome to have him living nearby. But don’t you wonder why he would want to live in a small apartment over your garage?”
“I did wonder. But he explained that he needs a place to stay until the restoration of his new home is completed.”
“Has it even started yet?”
“No, and it probably won’t begin for another month. And, yes, I’m bidding to do the work.”
“Why doesn’t he just hire you?”
“Actually, he did. But I insisted that he look at some other companies.”
She shook her head at me. “Of course you did. He’ll hire you, anyway, if he’s smart. You’re the best contractor in town. No, the county. Maybe even the whole state.”
“That might be laying it on a little thick, but thank you.” I smiled at her. “I love you, too.”
She frowned. “Nobody’s lived in the old lighthouse mansion for thirty years or more. Restoring it could take months or even a year.”
“You’re right.” I began to wash the chicken pieces. “At least six to eight months. I’ll know more once I see the inside.”
“So he might be living here all that time.”
“Maybe.”
“Are you sure you want someone staying here for that length of time?”
I glanced over at her. “Um, we’re talking about MacKintyre Sullivan, right? The author? Have you met him?”
“Of course I’ve met him. Oh, you mean because he’s so adorable? Hmm.” She found a head of fresh lettuce in the fridge and set it down near the small sink on the kitchen island. “Okay, I can see how having someone like him nearby would be nice.”
“Nice?” I shot her a look as I patted the chicken dry.
“Sorry. I can’t seem to come up with the right words to describe him.”
“That’s okay,” I said, chuckling as I prepped the coating mixture. “I can.”
“You like him.”
“I do.” I stopped working and turned to her. “He rescued me when I fell off my bike. He stayed with me, drove me back home, carried me up the stairs. It was sweet. And then he talked to the police and I really think he’s responsible for Chief Jensen’s change of heart about me. Mac is funny and kind and gorgeous. And now he’s going to live right up there.” I pointed out the window toward the garage apartment. “Yippee.”
“Chief Jensen is gorgeous, too,” she said softly.
“He is indeed.” I met her gaze. “How lucky are we that two such handsome unattached men have moved to town so recently?”
“Pretty darn lucky,” she said, and we both grinned.
As we talked, I dipped a piece of chicken into the egg mixture, then tossed it into the ziplock bag filled with crushed cornflakes and seasoned flour. Once I had half of the chicken pieces in the baggie, I zipped it closed and shook it until each piece of chicken was completely coated.
“I just hope Mac doesn’t hurt you,” Jane said, pulling a bright red tomato out of the vegetable basket.
“Hurt me? Why do you think he would hurt me?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She turned away from me and fiddled nervously with the utensils next to the chopping block built into the island in my kitchen. “It’s probably stupid.”
“Maybe. But now I’m curious, so please tell me what you’re thinking.”
She didn’t make eye contact with me as she took a quick sip of wine. “Lizzie and I were talking about Mac.”
My lips twisted into a disgruntled pout. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”
“Just listen.” She moved closer so she could speak in a low voice, as though someone might be eavesdropping. “Don’t you think it’s weird that he writes murder mysteries and he just moved here and already there are two murders?”
I stared at her, truly stunned. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“You’re right.” She walked back to the sink, shaking her head. “It’s a ludicrous theory.”
“You’re damn right it is.” Exasperated, I tossed the stuffed baggie down on the counter. “Where in the world does Lizzie come up with this stuff? I thought she loved Mac. Why would she ever believe he was capable of murder?”
Before Jane could speak, I held up both my hands to cut her off. “And don’t try to pretend this was your idea. Lizzie is the original conspiracy theorist and this is right up her alley. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, because I want to know why she would say something so crazy. And I don’t want her spreading it around town, either. What’s the deal with her? Is she jealous that I met Mac first?” I held up my hands again. “Okay, that was a stupid thing to say and I didn’t mean it. I love Lizzie, but I’m mystified as to why she would ever say something like that.”
It was Jane’s turn to shut me up. “Wait. To be fair, it wasn’t Lizzie who said it. It was Mac.”
I scowled at her.
“It’s true,” she insisted.
“I need more wine.” I grabbed the wine bottle and refilled my glass, then Jane’s. I took a sip, then waved her on. “Okay, go ahead and tell me what you heard.”
“Mac came into Paper Moon yesterday and right away he hit it off with Lizzie and Hal. He stuck around talking to them for an hour. So finally Hal tells him about the two murders that happened recently, and according to Lizzie, Mac laughed and said something like, ‘Don’t you think it’s an interesting coincidence that I just happened to move here and murders started happening?’”
I sipped my wine while I considered Mac’s words. “Okay, I can see how that would freak Lizzie out a little. But it was obviously just Mac’s sense of humor.”
“I think so, too,” Jane said, “even though I don’t know him as well as you do. But, Shannon, listen. Once Lizzie told me what he said, I thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that you can’t trust anyone right now. Not a soul.”
“Why not?”
“For all the reasons we’ve already talked about. Someone in town is using your tools to kill people. They’re trying to make you look guilty. Why? I keep asking myself what their motive is, but I can’t figure it out. And who? I haven’t got a clue.” Jane shook her head and gave a complete body shiver. “It’s crazy and frightening to consider that somebody around here has it in for you, but they do. That’s why I don’t think you should trust anyone right now.”
“Not even you?”
“Well, of course you can trust me.”
“Really? You were pretty angry about Jerry Saxton attacking me. You’re a loyal friend to me, so what was to stop you from tracking him down and bashing him over the head, just to let him know he couldn’t go around assaulting your friends and get away with it?”
She stared at me with her mouth open. After a long moment, I smiled. And so did she. And then we started to laugh.
“Oh, my God, what a ridiculous conversation,” she said, leaning against the island counter.
“You started it,” I claimed, and that made her giggle all over again.
After we sobered up, she faced me. “You’re right, you know. I may have been angry enough to kill those two jerks on your behalf. But I would never turn around and try to make you look like the guilty one.”
I smiled at her fondly. “I appreciate that.”
We both went back to work on dinner, but after a minute I stopped and looked at her. “Jane, I trust Mac. He’s smart and he makes me laugh. I’m happy he’s going to be living on my property for as long as he wants to stay. I don’t expect him to take care of me or anything, but having him around might discourage this horrible killer from coming after me.”
“Nobody’s coming after you,” she said, and I noticed her face turning pale. “For God’s sake, Shannon.” She grabbed the wine bottle. “I need more wine. How about you?”
“I just poured you more wine.”
She glanced at her full glass. “Oh.”
I chuckled. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Damn it, I’m scared to death for you!”
I grabbed a dish towel and wiped my hands clean. Then I walked over and enveloped her in a big hug. We all seem to need more hugs lately, I thought. “Thank you. I’m scared, too, okay? If I told you everything that Chief Jensen said to me after we found Wendell’s body, you’d be even more afraid for me than you are now. But I’m going to get through all this. And I really appreciate you staying here with me for a few nights.”
“I don’t mind staying with you. We’re having fun, right?”
“Well, mostly,” I said, drowning the last piece of chicken in the egg mixture. “Except when I go into major conniptions thinking Lizzie believes Mac is a cold-blooded killer.”
“Oh, what’s a major conniption between friends?” Jane said lightly.
“Damn straight,” I said, forcing myself to match her breezy tone.
As she pulled out more ingredients for the salad, she began to whistle her grandma’s favorite song, “Put on a Happy Face.”
Fake it till you make it, I thought, and determinedly hummed along with her. It wasn’t easy because Jane was truly tone-deaf, but after a few minutes, I was surprised to find myself putting on a happy face.