Chapter 8 #3
Not at all what I was expecting with this woman. Her paint-smeared jumper was only the first surprise of the day.
Not to mention the drip of hot pink paint that dotted the slope of one perfect breast that wouldn’t leave my mind anytime soon.
“But Haven residents have a way of pivoting. Our newest bit of town fame is Tate Reynolds. He won the lottery almost two years ago and instead of leaving with his millions, he decided to revitalize the town by investing in a ton of small businesses.” She poured coffee into two mismatched mugs.
One a unicorn head with a sparkly horn, and the other a stunning piece of pottery that could have been in a gallery.
She handed me the unicorn.
I swallowed down a laugh and took a sip.
“You are a tough nut to crack, Dutch.” She frowned. “Is that your first name or last?”
I didn’t want to answer. She probably wouldn’t know who I was, but I kind of liked the anonymity of being just Dutch. Instead of lying, I simply took a sip from the mug. “Good coffee.”
She rolled her eyes. “Keep your secrets. Anyway. What was I saying?”
“Town lore and murdered kids.”
“Right. Sounds awful when you say it that way.” She wrapped her fingers around the mug without a handle. It seemed as if it was meant for her hand. Had she made that too?
I wouldn’t put it past her.
I just waited her out. Focus wasn’t one of her strengths.
“Anyway. There’re three different stories about the kids. One is a serial killer, one is the bodach—”
“The boogeyman?”
Delighted, her face lit up. “You know your folklore. I shouldn’t be surprised. I did snoop around on your shelves. You have tons of books about it.”
“I have lots of interests.”
“Even more intriguing.” She leaned a hip against the table full of supplies. “We have a large Irish community that settled here in the ’50s. Since that was right about the time of the children’s disappearances…” She took a swallow with a shrug.
My head damn near exploded with the thought of it. I looked around and found a pad of paper.
“It’s always easier to—what are you doing?”
The itch to dig into the idea of it hit so hard, I set the mug down and grabbed one of her pastels. I quickly scrawled words down, but they came faster than I was expecting.
The monster who lived in the ice.
Who hibernated when the weather was warm instead of cold.
Why the town ignored the bodach because the summer was their time for tourists. Much like the classic Jaws movie, small towns would often sacrifice safety for money when it was the only way for towns to survive. I’d always been fascinated with how small towns worked.
Mostly because I’d never felt close enough to be part of a community.
Her honey scent dragged me out of the fugue state.
She was peeking over my shoulder.
I ripped the page off the pad and folded it in quarters before jamming it into my pocket.
“That was my expensive watercolor paper.”
“I’ll buy you a new pad.”
She tried to snatch the paper out of my pocket. “What did you write? I couldn’t read it.”
Shorthand. I hadn’t consciously meant to use it, but after everything I’d been through with Christopher, I’d taken to going totally analog with my ideas.
I grabbed her arm twisting her in front of me. “Don’t.”
Her mouth dropped open. I expected fear. Even braced for it.
I shouldn’t have put hands on her.
But her eyes dilated and her gaze dropped to my mouth before bouncing up to meet mine. “More secrets?”
“They aren’t secrets if you were spilling town details now are they?”
“Then why are you writing in a foreign language?”
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s my own.”
“Oh.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “Interesting.”
I stepped back, letting her arm go. “Not really.”
She jammed her fingers into the pockets of her overalls and the buttons gaped showing off all that golden, color splashed skin. Her lips quirked up. “Like what you see?”
“Offering up something, neighbor?”
“I haven’t decided yet. You’re rude and mysterious. It’s kind of hot, but also annoying. Not sure it’s worth a bounce.”
I blinked.
Her lips spread into a wide grin and her eyes sparkled like moldavite.
A dangerous, cosmic stone I’d used in one of my books—if you believed in that kind of thing. When I’d gone on the rabbit hole of research for my second book, Wavelength, my character had opened a fissure in the world because of that stone.
Fitting that this woman would remind me of that time in my life.
High on the success of my debut, I’d believed I was invincible instead of trapped under an ice dam of impostor syndrome and doubt since Christopher had knocked me off my axis.
Phoebe had a strange, offbeat way of her that left me unsettled and intrigued. After a year of flat nothing, it was tempting to chase anything that made me remember what it was like to be alive.
“Nice to know you’re interested.”
“Who says I am?”
“Since you can’t keep your eyes off my tits.” She tapped the tip of my nose. “Unfortunately, I have to get to the café.” She whirled around and crossed to the door, holding it open for me to leave. “I’m behind thanks to the storm. Why don’t you take Mouse with you when you go in town?”
“It’s not my dog.” Exasperated, I followed her.
“Tell him that. Besides, he’s just going to break out of my house to get to you anyway. I’ll be back around ten. I’ll take him off your hands when I get back.”
“Ten?” I frowned.
“Yeah. I don’t have regular hours. I have a feeling you don’t either.”
Annoyed that she had me so off balanced, I crowded into her in the doorway. “I don’t.”
She licked her lips. “I do love a mystery, Dutch of California.”
“How do you know I’m from California?”
“You did say you were from San Fran.”
“San Francisco,” I corrected.
She laughed. “And the well-worn sweatshirt you were wearing was from a college there. Then again, I am learning not to assume with you.”
“Good, you shouldn’t.”
“We’ll see.” She snapped her fingers and Mouse met us at the door. “Go with Dutch.” She ruffled his ears. “I’ll see you later. Why don’t you cook for me this time?” She waved over her head on the way to her house.
Well, shit.
I looked down at the dog who was staring at me with a tilt to his head.
“Fine. Guess we’re going shopping.”
Mouse barked and did a spin, wagged his tail, then took off toward my house.
“You’re a con artist,” I called after him.
Both of them were.
Question was, why was I willing to be conned?