23
Betty and Mason were fighting over the historic diary.
Mason was still fussing over the book’s existence.
How had it come to be on the society’s shelves?
Why hadn’t anyone entered it into the library log?
Random volumes—especially of local importance—needed to be properly documented.
Not to mention, he was the society’s president.
He should be the first to know everything!
Betty was pretty much yawning in the face of the elderly gentleman’s tirade.
At one point, she declared, “For the love of God, man, no need to get your knickers in a wad,” though she uttered the words with a certain level of affection.
Come to think of it, most of their squabbling seemed not just familiar, but indulgent in tone.
The secret life of senior citizens. Raquel didn’t want to know.
She let them engage in their foreplay, while making a show of shifting papers, distributing documents, then, as their quarrel reached a crescendo, sliding the crumbling journal into her bag. A few seconds later, she waved goodbye. Neither Betty nor Mason so much as glanced in her direction.
All the better, Raquel thought.
She’d just made it outside the church when two things happened at once. She came face-to-face with yet another cop—to judge by the gold shield dangling around his neck—and Mason came bursting through the doors behind her.
“Where’s the diary?” the historical society president stormed. “I know you took it!”
Raquel widened her eyes in a suitable display of surprise, while taking in the gray-haired man’s thunderous expression. It was edged with just enough malice to cause her to lean back a fraction. Forget being seventy. If looks could kill, elder statesman Mason was quite capable of murder.
Even the newly arrived detective appeared taken aback.
“I’m so sorry,” Raquel soothed. She placed a hand on the blustering historical society president’s arm. “Can I help you with something?”
“The journal! Where is it?” Mason was already reaching for her shoulder bag.
Raquel made a show of flipping back her long hair, which allowed her to gracefully twist away. “You mean the one Betty reshelved?”
Mason drew up short. “Wait? What?”
“Betty. Right before you two got into it. I saw her slide the volume back into the bookshelf. Though”—Raquel furrowed her brow—“not the same place she got it from. Then again, sounds like it had been cataloged incorrectly? She must’ve been remedying that situation.
Yes. That makes sense. She placed the diary where it properly belonged. ”
Mason appeared uncertain but hardly stupid. He narrowed his eyes, regarding her intently. Then he shifted his gaze to the investigator, still standing behind her.
“You are?” he barked.
“Detective Samuel Adams, New Hampshire Cold Case Unit.”
Mason blinked his eyes. “You’re with her?”
Well, this was a good question. Raquel eyed the cop with genuine interest. No dumb bunny, he smiled noncommittally.
The detective began: “I have a few questions—”
“Of course you do!” she interrupted smoothly. “And as the current homeowner of the Dixon estate, I’m happy to assist.”
Mason still appeared perturbed.
While the detective nodded agreeably. “Absolutely. And I have so many inquiries.”
That did not bode quite so well.
“Check the bookshelves,” Raquel soothed Mason. Then, before the man could protest, she grabbed the state investigator’s arm and got the hell out of there.
“You’re a good liar,” Detective Adams said as they bustled down the sidewalk.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And just like that, you prove my point.”
She ignored him. Her thoughts were churning. She was usually very good at this sort of thing: assess a situation, strategize the solution, then proceed full steam ahead, adapting on the fly as necessary. Now, however, she felt a little dazed. And tired. Possibly bordering on overwhelmed.
After the past few days, she just wanted a moment to regroup.
Actually, she wanted to go home and crawl into Theo’s arms. He wasn’t just a person; he was a place, a state of being she’d never experienced before and would never know again. She missed that feeling now.
“So who did I just save you from?” Detective Adams was asking.
He’d fallen in step beside her. Raquel had no idea where she was headed.
Mostly, she’d picked a direction away from the church.
Now she worked on settling down as she realized she was forcing the detective to move at an uncomfortable clip.
“Mason. He’s the president of the historical society, and overall town busybody. After the discovery of the well, he was at our house even before most of the responding officers. Oh—and he’s really into crockery.”
“Crockery?”
She provided a brief overview.
“So, crockery. Fascinating. Are you headed anywhere in particular?”
“Umm…” They were just passing the local deli. “Coffee?”
He wasn’t fooled for a minute. “That’s my ride.” He pointed at a boring-looking dark sedan. “How about I give you a lift to your car. And in return, you can tell me all about this journal you’ve got stashed in your bag.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Now, now, we both know you’re a better liar than that. I feel slightly insulted by the lack of effort.”
That finally got her to laugh. “All right, guilty as charged. So, you work in the cold case unit. In other words, you’ve spent your career, such as it is”—she pegged his age at somewhere around her own—“on the Dixon case.”
“Holy grail of the unit,” he agreed.
“Have you ever seen the house in person?”
He nearly suffered a misstep, which made her feel guilty, given his slightly uneven gait.
“Take me to my car. Then…” She shrugged. “What the hell. Most of law enforcement has been on the property. You might as well join the party.”
“I haven’t forgotten about the journal,” he warned. “But I accept your attempt at distraction, as long as you accept that I will be cycling back.”
“Duly noted. You know anything about my husband, Theo Collins?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because seriously, I can’t wait for the two of you to meet.”
Raquel couldn’t say that turning down the long, snaking driveway to her “home” was some kind of magic pick-me-up.
Theo, on the other hand. Pulling up to the sight of him standing out front, tossing a ball for the pale, stocky dog that wasn’t their dog, the sleeves of his blue flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows despite the fading light and bitter chill.
He could be in a sporting goods commercial, advertising all things manly man.
But mostly, he was hers, and the broad grin that split his face upon seeing her…
She rolled to a stop, Detective Adams pulling in behind her.
She spotted the other two vehicles from earlier still parked on the other side.
So the bone experts remained hard at work.
Given the dark pewter hue of the sky and the current forecast for the first nor’easter of the season, they were probably feeling the pressure to finish up.
It certainly looked like it was going to snow sooner versus later.
She felt jittery and anxious. Too much was happening too fast. That the weather was also turning against her only increased her apprehension.
Briefly, she eyed her canvas shoulder bag. Now would be the time to discreetly tuck the old diary in the glove compartment so when Adams asked to see it again…Then again, given how rapidly the centuries-old volume was deteriorating, she wasn’t sure it would survive the subterfuge.
She surrendered to the inevitable, grabbing her tote and climbing out of the Porsche.
The canine opportunist made a beeline straight to her, tongue lolling out, tail wagging excitedly.
Should she feel this gratified by a stray mutt’s enthusiastic greeting?
Because honestly, she could already feel her lips spreading into a reluctant smile.
The dog suddenly drew up short. Cocked his head to the side. Abruptly sat back on his haunches. Ah, Mr. Man had spied Adams exiting his vehicle and was now eyeing the new arrival with concern.
For his part, Adams appeared slightly shell-shocked. “I’ll be damned,” the man muttered. “She wasn’t lying.” He turned toward Raquel. “That pup could be the Dixons’ dog’s twin.”
“Probably evil twin. But yes. Uncanny, isn’t it?”
Theo had crossed to meet them. He gave Raquel a subtly questioning glance, while extending a hand toward Adams in greeting. The two men shook as Raquel made the introductions. The dog didn’t move a muscle. Remained sitting, watching, waiting.
Adams finally approached on his own, holding out fingers for inspection.
A few sniffs later, the regal canine rose to standing, pushing his square head closer for a rub.
Adams obliged, still wearing a curious expression.
He leaned down, briefly touching his forehead against the dog’s own.
In response, Mr. Man rested his head upon Adams’s shoulder, as he had done with Raquel the other night.
Their stray had a thing for strays, Raquel thought, watching the exchange.
Maybe Mr. Man had been a comfort dog once upon a time.
Now the pup scooted slightly back, sniffed at Adams’s pantleg, then gazed at the detective inquiringly.
In response, the detective lifted the cuff to reveal a prosthetic fitted into his black leather shoe.
Mr. Man replied with a couple of quick tail wags, as if he’d suspected as much.
Theo gave Raquel a second look. “What the hell?” he murmured under his breath.
She shrugged. “I stopped understanding anything about two days ago. Why start now?”
She led the way into the house, falling back on well-versed rituals to calm her own racing pulse.