9. Dakota
I sipped my coffee, basking in the warm glow of the afternoon sun as it bathed the porch. I’d been up half the night with restless dreams, thanks to Tucker and everything that was going on. I still wasn’t sure what we were supposed to find in Hope’s basement, but I was betting on absolutely nothing.
I’d nap later. Or maybe I’d just go to bed as soon as he left. I’d rest easy once we came up empty, wouldn’t I?
Unfortunately, I’d come outside much earlier than necessary, and Tucker was nowhere in sight. I fidgeted with the ornate handle of Hope’s handmade coffee mug, pacing the porch.
He’d be here soon. Tucker seemed like the kind of man who was never late. Unlike me, he probably showed up right when he said he’d be somewhere and wore a grumpy scowl if whoever he was meeting wasn’t there yet. Scratch that—he’d probably show up early and still scowl until the other person arrived, even if they were on time.
I, on the other hand, was perpetually late. I was working on it. Daily. But unless it was for a shift at the hospital, people around here just kind of expected me to get there as soon as I could. I’d heard about island time, but since we lived in Charlotte Oaks, I guessed that made it tiny town time?
I bit my lip as I glanced back toward the front door. I had just the remedy for all this fidgeting in my cute overnight bag, nestled between my pajamas and toiletry bag. Setting my coffee mug aside, I skipped through the heavy front door of the log cabin and retrieved my crochet hook, yarn, and half a sweater, already feeling less jittery.
Hope was at work, and I’d called out because treasure hunting was serious business. But it had killed me to hang out with Hope before she left for her shift at the station without telling her about my afternoon plans with Tucker in her basement. I wasn’t one to lie, but in this case, telling her the truth felt like it’d do a whole lot more harm than good.
After all, if she were somehow complicit in this theft, it wouldn’t be ideal for her to know the jig was up. And if she had nothing to do with it… well, I didn’t want her to think I ever believed she did. And truly, I didn’t believe it. Hope’s grandpa was a nice older man, and Hope didn’t have a sneaky bone in her body.
But, good intentions or not, I was about to let a stranger poke around in her grandpa’s basement in the name of clearing her name. Did that make me sneaky with a heart of gold?
I’d need to ask Momma about it later. She was my moral compass with a colorful flair, and I was already more relaxed just knowing she’d help me put things into perspective once this was all over.
I stepped back onto the porch, my yarn and hook bundled against my chest.
"Dakota," Tucker greeted me in his gravelly voice.
I jumped, fumbling the bundle of brown and gold in my arms. Then I watched in horror as my ball of yarn dropped to the ground and rolled across the dirty porch. Tucker lifted a brow as he stopped it from rolling down the steps by planting his massive boot in its path.
"Ninja," I returned his greeting, playing it off like his sudden appearance hadn’t startled me into sending that ball of yarn rolling in his direction.
He studied me for a moment, head tilted to the side, then looked down at the yarn. I winced as he picked it up. It wasn’t a small skein, and while it looked like a grapefruit when I held it, the size of his hand made it look more like an orange.
He brushed a stray leaf and some dirt from the fibers of the yarn, and my eyes widened when he began winding it up, inevitably reeling me in like a fish on a hook.
He stopped when I was about a foot away, and while I expected him to hand it over, he still held the yarn in his big paw as he looked down, still studying me.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “What?”
“What is all this?” he asked, nodding at the first half of a sweater bundled in my arms.
“It’s crochet,” I replied. I lifted my chin. “It relaxes me.”
He still wasn’t giving my yarn back, and I was stuck there waiting for him to hand it over since I wasn’t willing to risk pulling stitches from my work-in-progress. Peachy.
“Why did you need something to relax you?”
“What?” I asked, feeling a little warm under his assessing bonfire of a gaze.
“You said crochet is relaxing… Were you feeling… not relaxed?”
I straightened. “I don’t even know how to relax. Gimme.”
He stared at the hand I held out, then opened his mouth as if to ask another question. But then he must have thought better of it because he closed his mouth with a snap and handed it over.
“You ready to head inside?” he asked.
I returned his stare, then spun on my heel, taking a seat on a swing against the wall of the house. Then I got my yarn and sweater situated, looping a strand around my hook and slipping it into a stitch like we had all the time in the world. "Yep. Just as soon as you tell me what we’re lookin’ for.”
He leaned against a porch post, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I told you last night. We’re looking for my client’s stolen property.”
“How am I supposed to help you find it if I don’t know what I’m lookin’ for?”
He stayed quiet, but me? More yarn pulled up and looping, more stitches stitched. It was a stitchy standoff, and I was determined to win.
“If I tell you, how do I know you won’t search it out yourself and keep it?” he asked.
"You think I'd do that?" I feigned offense, pressing a hand dramatically to my chest before going back to my sweater. "I'm just tryin' to protect my friend's property, is all. For all we know, it’s rightfully hers."
“It’s not.”
“Says you.”
“Says my client,” he said through his teeth.
I snorted, eyes on my stitches. “That’s even worse.”
"You’re not letting me into that house until I tell you, are you?" Tucker asked with a smirk evident in his deep voice.
I shook my head, trading my crochet hook for my coffee mug from the table beside the swing. I held it in both hands as I took a sip, watching him over the rim of the mug. It was the caffeinated version of eating popcorn while waiting for the show, and I was more than ready.
He clicked his tongue. “You know, I could just leave you out here with your yarn ball and walk right in.”
“You could, but somethin’ tells me you won’t.”
I had no idea why I thought that. Nothing was stopping him from doing so. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t succeed, and we both knew it. He’d probably just pick me up by the tops of my arms and move me aside if I stood in his way.
Plus, based on the scar I’d seen above his eyebrow when he’d lured me in with my yarn ball, I had a feeling a crochet hook wouldn’t scare him much after apparently surviving a knife fight.
Finally, he gave in. "Here's the story: my client is the rightful owner of 1.2 million dollars in actual pirate treasure. But it was stolen from him, and then the thief gave it to Hope's grandpa for safekeeping."
My mouth popped open. “Sorry, I think I have yarn in my ears. Did you just say pirate treasure?”
“Yep.”
“Like…”
“Gold doubloons.”
I laughed. “Hush.”
“I’m serious.”
“Where the heck…” I set down my coffee, stunned. “When you talked about treasure last night, I thought you were bein’ snarky.”
“Nope.”
"And wait, Hope's grandpa?" I asked, eyebrows raised in surprise as I set aside my crochet project and stood. "Why on earth would the treasure thief give it to him?”
"Because he was a locksmith," Tucker explained, and when I only stared blankly at him, his lips twitched. "Everyone in their circle knew he was just as good at keeping people out of safes as he was at helping them into them. Now that the old man is gone, my client wants his treasure back.”
“And he hired you to get it for him?"
“Yep.”
I took another sip of my coffee, pondering this new information while the warm liquid settled the buzzing of excitement that wound through me. It was like something straight out of an adventure novel, and being part of such a mystery was beyond thrilling.
Though, Hope’s involvement was a bit of a damper. Someone had gotten shot in her yard because of this treasure. It could’ve been her.
"Alright," I said, standing awkwardly—and with heaps of determination—with my mug and yarn. “Let’s get in there and see what we can see. But I have a feelin’ you’re not gonna find a treasure chest in Hope’s basement. This story sounds more than a little far-fetched.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Worse or weirder?” I asked.
“Both. I’ve had cases that started out much weirder than this one and turned out to be completely true.”
“Like what?” I asked.
He gestured to the door. “Thought we were finally going inside.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you had a point last night about me headin’ into a dark and creepy basement with a man I don’t even know. Maybe I’ve got you all wrong. Can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to get to know you a bit before puttin’ herself in danger, right?”
“Oh, right, so now you’re concerned about putting yourself in danger,” Tucker said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone as his gaze remained locked on mine.
I sat again, giving him a pointed look. “Tell me about a strange case.”
He sighed, his expression a mixture of impatience and reluctant amusement. “We really don’t have time for this.”
“You’re not very easy to get to know. Doesn’t bode well for my fears.”
“Wait, you have enough sense to fear something?”
“Still bein’ evasive,” I shot back, wagging a finger at him. “Careful, I might start to fear you.”
Tucker stared at me for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if he was weighing whether or not to indulge me. Finally, he caved. “Theft of a Marty.”
“Um… what?”
“A weird case,” he explained with a shrug. “We had to recover a Marty after someone stole it from the local grocery store.”
I couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbled up. “And what in the Sam Hill is a Marty?”
“It’s a robot. Some grocery stores have them. They roll around and clean up messes in the aisles and some other random stuff.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like grocery store robots were just an everyday occurrence. My skepticism must have shown because his smirk grew a little more. “Apparently, a group of rich college kids decided they wanted one to clean their condo, so we recovered it and returned it to the store.”
I blinked, trying to wrap my head around this strange story. “And you’re sayin’ the grocery store hired y’all to do this recovery? Why not the police?”
“Oh, they filed a police report. But sometimes hiring a PI gets the job done a lot faster and with less paperwork than working with the local police.”
“Huh,” I murmured, eyeing him thoughtfully.
Tucker Black, P.I. didn’t seem like the type to joke, but this was still one of the most bizarre things I’d ever heard. Still, the way he said it—with that no-nonsense, gruff demeanor—made it all the more believable.
I shrugged, conceding with a small smile. “Well, I suppose if the grocery store trusts you to recover their fancy cleanin’ robot, I can trust you, too.”
Tucker chuckled, a low sound that I felt more than heard. “That’s the spirit.”
I gathered my things and stood again, ready to finally face the basement. “Alright then, let’s go find ourselves some treasure.”