Chapter 3
“So he wants you to meet him tonight,” Ben repeated, ticking things off on his fingers. “To go over a script. That you haven’t seen. But he hasn’t approached Rory?”
I shook my head. “If Rory had heard about this, my phone would be ringing nonstop. He’s dying for me to accept anything right now and isn’t thrilled I’m holding out for the right project.
” Rory Flick, my agent for my entire career, had a lot of thoughts on what right project meant and a lot of accusations about being picky that weren’t entirely wrong.
Ben grunted in acknowledgement, leaning back on the sofa to look at me for a long, thoughtful moment.
“I think you should do it. Talk to him, I mean. You’ve been fretting about your career literally since the day we met so maybe getting a meeting in, seeing something that isn’t a desperate attempt from Rory to capitalize on your summer’s notoriety, might be a good thing. ”
“But it’s Tubbs,” I whined, flopping back into the leather club chair across from the sofa.
Ben had heard the entire story about my history with Tubbs over an Earl Gray affogato, something he was trying out for the tea shop on their prepared drinks menu.
It was good but needed a little tweaking, and I was more than happy to be his taste tester.
For the affogato! Geez...
“I’ll grant that it does give off slightly desperate and maybe a little sketchy vibes but,” he held up a finger to stave off my agreement, “maybe he’s being truthful. He’s older now, maybe he’s had a change of heart. Maybe he’s trying to make it up to you.”
“Or maybe he thinks I’m so desperate he can lowball me. Or he’s desperate and no one else will work with him so he’s trying to guilt me into it.”
Ben tipped his chin in acknowledgement, smiling just a little. “Only one way to find out.”
“Ugh,” I groaned, slipping down further in the chair. “I don’t want to be stuck by myself with him..”
“Take Muffin. He loves nighttime walks.”
#
MUFFIN’S LOVE OF NIGHTTIME walks was both adorable and annoying.
Adorable because the massive Cane Corso frolicked like a puppy whenever I took him out after dark.
Annoying because he could and would pull me down the block at speed, chasing whatever scent caught his fancy and leaving me stumbling along the sidewalks and roadsides of Lester Cove like I was my first day with legs.
But damn it, I loved the giant beastie and he probably loved me back.
Or maybe he was just trauma bonded because I’d accidentally adopted him after finding his previous human murdered backstage on my very first night in Lester Cove.
He’d taken to Tony, the little purse dog that was about the size of a dust bunny with the pent-up aggression of a riled alligator, pretty quick too.
Considering Tony had belonged to Margie Witte, it was a very star-crossed besties situation.
Muffin was tippy-tapping with his huge paws as I got him ready for our walk to the docks under Ben’s amused observation.
“If I’m not back in two hours, he’s probably pulled me to Quebec. ”
“Bon chance.”
“What’s that? You’re an ass? Well, I wasn’t going to say it myself but...”
Ben laughed, a loud belly-deep cackle. “Go before Tubbs decides to call Rory for you.”
That lit a fire under me that was almost too much for Muffin to handle.
We headed down the short, residential street until it curved into Buttermilk Road, the main drag through and around town.
Buttermilk cut through the center of Lester Cove and met up with Bluff Road just past Mariner’s Rest Park, a tiny pocket park dedicated to all the fishermen and sailors from Lester Cove that had been lost at sea over the years.
Bluff Road made up the other border of the town, running along the cliff overlooking the cove and along the back half of everything where it was less quaint New England seaside town and more small town struggling to eke out a living.
Sienna Moon, in her acerbic way, told me once that Lester Cove was divided up into two parts.
Tourist-friendly and tourist-averse. Bluff Road was the demarcation line.
I kept Muffin towards Buttermilk with the old-fashioned streetlamps and wide shoulders on the blacktop road that would smooth out into the paved main drag with the cute sidewalks and shops, both of us hurrying past the theatre where Renee Rhoades had met her end.
The mylar balloons that had been tied up on the marquee as a sort of memorial by the high school theatre kids now just tattered and flopping in the breeze like a ghost. It was a long enough walk to the New Yacht Club that even Muffin was tired by the time we got to the pedestrian gate.
A lone security guard eyed me when I shuffled past, Muffin close by my side, and onto the deck where clean up was still underway.
No one stopped us as we made our way carefully down the dock, the sodium lights doing very little to help my night vision (and okay, fine, I still hadn’t made an eye doctor appointment to get new contacts but I could do that when I went back to LA over the winter holidays or whenever).
A few of the boats were lit up, the sound of people talking and laughing drifting out and over the water, but most were dark and silent, vintage homages to more money than sense but beautiful and kind of terrifying nonetheless.
I’m not a strong swimmer. And being out on the water? Yikes. Attending a few fancy parties on moored, huge yachts was one thing but the idea of being out on the water intentionally? No thanks. Nope. Nuh uh.
The Beth was moored near the very end, dark wood polished to a shine with brass fittings gleaming in the glow of the strings of lights tracing out the mast and rigging.
A little light peeked out from between the curtains drawn over the small windows, but it was otherwise quiet.
I slowed my steps, Muffin too intent on investigating every smell we came across to care we’d lost forward momentum as we neared the Beth.
The step thingies were down and the little gate on the side of the boat was opened and latched back so it wouldn’t bang shut.
“Hello? Mr. Tubbs?” I glanced at Muffin, who’d finally realized we’d come to a stop.
“I cannot carry you up these steps,” I announced when he gave me his big, soulful I’m just a weak little puppy, carry me like a baby look that usually only came out at the vet’s office or when he’d been caught eating Tony’s food.
“You can either hop up yourself or sit here with the seaweed stink.”
Muffin gave me a disgruntled wuff and shuffled along beside me as I moved towards the steps. “Mr. Tubbs, hey! It’s Damien. You wanted to meet up Tonight?”
Nothing except the soft clink of metal on metal and someone talking nearby, laughing suddenly and startling some snoozing gulls from the end of the dock.
The faint smell of plastic and sharp stink of something petrochemically, like paint thinner or kerosene, drifted on the breeze and I found myself missing the rotting seaweed and dead crab smell from earlier.
“Hey, I’m coming aboard, alright? Don’t be weird about it! ”
“I told you I was calling the cops!”
Muffin growled, pushing himself between me and the man leaning over the railing of the boat next door. “I just got here!”
He raised his phone, shining the flashlight app in my face before sweeping it away with a grunt.
“Sorry, I thought you were that woman again, shouting and cussing! We’re trying to have a nice evening here, you know!
Look,” he added, moving down the railing until he was close enough to see me clearly without the flashlight, “I don’t care what folks get into, you know?
Just don’t be so damn loud about it!” He gave me one of those old man grimace-head shake things for good measure before ducking back under some lines and ropes and disappearing back into the cabin of his boat, voices rising in laughter again.
“It wasn’t me,” I muttered to the empty dock.
Beside me, Muffin sighed and, tired of waiting around, scrambled up the steps onto the deck of the Beth.
“Muffin, no!” I hurried after him, cursing as the steps wobbled under my weight.
Muffin was belly-down in front of the closed cabin door, the glow of the interior light seeping out along the bottom edge. Inside, it was quiet.
My first thought wasn’t danger. No, it was that jerk ghosted me! Scowling, I slapped my hand against the door a few times, calling out, “Tubbs, seriously?”
Muffin huffed, then made that noise he does whenever he shoves his muzzle into Ben’s running shoes, a sort of coughing gagging sound that always made Ben scowl and mutter about dogs needing to go to good homes.
“Stop that. It’s just boat smell,” I muttered.
A hint of mildew, something lemony that had to be wood polish (it smelled like my grandmother’s front room), diesel, seaweed, and a dozen other smells that were layered in a weird miasma that was both pleasant and overpowering in turns.
Muffin whined, scooting back into my legs before doing a little prance of urgency, tugging at the lead still in my hand like he wanted to go and go now.
“Sit.”
Muffin was an untamed rebel at heart and decided to start pacing in circles between where I stood and the back of the boat, making discomforted noises low in his throat.
Oh for crying out loud... I tried the knob and was a little surprised to find the door unlocked. Muffin growled behind me. “Tubbs? Hello?