Chapter 3
CULTIVAR
Harper
“TELL ME AGAIN HOW IT HAPPENED . . . ” Lukas whispers as we stand at Arthur’s bedside, the gentle cadence of his snore washing through the room.
“He said he tripped when he was walking and hit his head on a tree,” I reply.
“It looks like he was punched in the face.”
“Ha . . . you should see the other guy,” I say with an exaggerated voice and an elbow to Lukas’s ribs like I’m in some old-timey slapstick comedy.
Inwardly, I cringe. I don’t even know the name of this tourist who Arthur killed last night.
But I can confirm that his face still bore the imprint of Arthur’s bespoke cane handle when Nolan threw his head into the hopper of my woodchipper.
While Nolan tossed the frozen bits of corpse into Cookie Monster, he left the job of dealing with the resulting muck to me.
It took a couple of hours to bury it all and plant a new row of dahlias above the mulched remains.
At least my flowers will be doing great this year, I guess.
“Please God, no. The last thing I need is my grandfather getting into fights.”
I turn away before Lukas can see that my smile is more like a grimace and lead him out of the room.
Lukas closes the door to Arthur’s bedroom with a quiet snick, then leans against the wall.
The gold threads in the damask wallpaper shine in the dim light of the vintage Victorian wall sconces.
“This is so bad,” he says, running a hand through his inky black hair.
“First the fucking shit show at the distillery, and now this.”
I blow out a long breath and chew my bottom lip as I watch Lukas rest his head against the wall and stare up at the ceiling as though it has the answers to all his complicated problems. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”
His gaze lands on me, softening in a weary apology. “It’s not your fault, Harper. It’s not like you made anyone break into the distillery and get themselves killed. And Arthur is not your responsibility.”
Though I know Lukas is trying to take the guilt from my shoulders, a sense of failure settles on them instead.
He doesn’t realize the chaos at the distillery had anything to do with me, of course.
It’s my job to keep Cape Carnage safe. It’s the promise I made, one I can’t even keep now if another shitbag tourist shows up.
As much as I hate it, Nolan is right—we can’t keep killing.
The Sleuthseekers will come, and they could be crawling around town in a matter of days, looking for answers to the deaths of Sam and Vinny and all the other secrets buried here.
The best thing I can do now is find ways to lead them away from us.
From Arthur. He’s my best friend. My mentor.
And I’ve not just let Lukas down. I’ve let Arthur down too.
I’ve let him get himself into trouble. Despite what Lukas thinks, his well-being feels like my responsibility.
But maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe I’m causing him more harm than good.
“What are you going to do?” is all I can reliably get out.
He looks at me with an inexorable kind of regret. “I wonder if it’s time to talk to the Whispering Pines Care Home.”
I hesitate a beat before giving a slight, single nod, swallowing the burn in my throat.
“It doesn’t mean he needs to go into a facility right now,” Lukas says, sensing my fraught emotions, even though I fight to keep my brow from furrowing and the tears from glazing my eyes.
“I just mean, it might be good to have a conversation with them and see what they offer. They probably have a waiting list. I heard they have a really great dementia program.”
I give Lukas another nod and force a smile.
I know he’s just doing what’s best for his grandfather, even though we both know Arthur would hate it.
Getting the Lancaster Distillery up and running again is no small feat, and it’s not going to be any easier now that there’s an investigation on the premises.
It’s not like I’m Arthur’s blood relation, no matter how much he feels like family to me.
And I know I’ve dropped the ball. I’m spread too thin.
Someday very soon, making Arthur’s meals, bringing him double-shot chai lattes with soy, and checking on him a few times a day isn’t going to be enough.
“Yeah . . . I mean, it’s worth a conversation, of course,” I say, managing to keep my voice steady.
Though a bittersweet cloud hovers in Lukas’s expression, I can still sense his relief. “You’ll come with me, right? I mean, if you want to.”
“Of course.”
Lukas lays a hand on my arm. “Why don’t you go home for a bit? You need to look after yourself. You look tired.”
“You flatter me. Thanks so much.”
“What I mean is that I’m sorry,” he says with a good-natured eye roll.
“You shouldn’t have to shoulder so much of the caregiver responsibilities alone.
I’ll figure this out, I promise.” With a last squeeze of my arm, Lukas heads down the hall, and a moment later, I hear the dull thud of the front door closing.
It’s only then that I’m able to take a full breath.
“If you send me to Whispering Pines, I’ll take you out of my will,” Arthur says, so close behind me that his breath stirs the fine hairs on my neck.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur,” I hiss, slapping a hand over my rioting heart as I spin to face him. “I thought you were asleep.”
Arthur puffs out his chest and stabs his cane onto the parquet floor with a decisive stamp. “Well. At least my advanced age hasn’t diminished my acting skills. I’m old, you see.”
I snort an unamused laugh. “I know for a fact that’s exactly the line you gave Nolan when you convinced him to hand over your murder bag so you could lure the tourist staying at Maria’s Airbnb into the cemetery and kill him. The same tourist I just mulched into compost. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Confusion washes over Arthur’s cloudy gray eyes. “Who is Nolan?”
“Nolan Rhodes. He’s the guy you met at the Carnage Theater when we went to see Beauty and the Beast the other night.
” Though I hope this will jog his inconsistent memory, I’m not sure it really works.
But I know how Arthur thinks. I’ve given him enough information to use to save face if he’s feeling embarrassed.
“Ah, yes,” Arthur says, nodding sagely. “Mr. Rhodes.”
A skilled actor indeed. I can’t tell if he legitimately remembers Nolan or if he’s just taken the opportunity to use his surname, but he barrels on nonetheless. “I should have my bag in my possession at all times anyway, Harper.”
His tone is chastising, but there’s no way I’ll be intimidated into returning his bag of weapons and poisons and the bespoke murder journal he affectionately calls his “grim-noire.” I’m worried the judgy bus—Arthur’s signature withering disappointment—is about to run me over for a second time in a week when I still have those fucking topiaries to deal with, but Arthur passes by me and starts making his way down the hallway.
“Regardless, I’m not going into a retirement home,” he snarls over his shoulder.
I trail after him, my cheeks burning. “Don’t you think maybe—”
“No.”
“But Lukas—”
“‘But Lukas’ nothing. What happened with the horrible little man in the cemetery was his fault. He attacked me. I was just prepared. Thanks to Mr. Rhodes.” His menacing eyes pin me with admonishment before he refocuses on the grand foyer of the manor and the corridor that leads to the kitchen.
And I know better than to pursue an argument when his mood is this foul.
The Arthur I met when I first washed up in Cape Carnage four years ago is not the same man as the one before me now.
He was always fierce, formidable. But he was rational.
And more and more, that part of him is slipping away.
My heart feels pulled apart, unable to reconcile into a single, beating force. It’s not my place to question Lukas’s decisions. And it’s not in my nature to deny Arthur his autonomy. Even hiding his bag in my cottage felt wrong, though necessary.
Maybe a care facility is the best place for him.
Or maybe it will thrust all his secrets into the light, an autopsy of everything we’ve buried.
And whether he stays here or goes to Whispering Pines, there’s so much guilt left to grapple with.
Guilt for not doing enough. For letting Arthur and Lukas down.
For worrying about what more it will take to look after Arthur if he stays at Lancaster Manor.
For wanting something for myself that’s not stitched to some kind of responsibility.
Like Nolan.
I stall in the foyer. Arthur shuffles ahead toward the kitchen without me, his grumbling complaints echoing down the hall.
My cottage isn’t mine. Neither is my garden, nor the woodchipper that feeds it. My responsibilities, my promises—I made them, but they don’t belong to me. Even my name is someone else’s identity that I’m merely inhabiting.
Nolan is the first thing I’ve had to myself in years. But what if that’s not something I deserve? What if that’s why it’s so hard to hold on to him? It’s not just about the promises I’ve made or the need to keep him safe. It’s the fact that I know I’m not worthy of what’s blossoming between us.
Maybe he was never meant to be mine.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the last text I sent to Nolan.
The cops are at the distillery. As soon as I’d sent it, I’d deliberated about telling him to run.
I’d typed out a message only to delete it and try again.
When we’d talked on the phone, I’d cut the conversation short so I wouldn’t say the words out loud.
It was selfish. I guess I just wanted a little more time.
To keep something for myself. And in doing so, I’m letting everyone down.
I take a deep breath. My thumbs coast over the screen as I tap out a message, one that’s echoed through my thoughts more than once today.
Everything’s under control here with Arthur. I can handle the rest on my own, I’ll be fine. I promise.
And I wanted to tell you this earlier, but I couldn’t do it. Maybe it’s because a few weeks ago, I would have punched myself in the face for saying this . . . but I really like you, Nolan. A lot.
But what I want doesn’t matter anymore. Not with everything that’s at stake.
So you should definitely go home. Go back to Tennessee before the Sleuthseekers come. I’ll make sure they don’t follow, I promise. It’ll be better for both of us. Maybe we can do this another time. Just not right now.
My feet are rooted to the foyer’s decorative floor. My thumb hovers over the send button on the final message. I stare at the screen until the words warp in a veil of tears.
“Harper . . . ?” Arthur calls from the hallway.
I look up to see him stalled at the threshold to the kitchen.
His head tilts. I’m not sure how well he can see me from this distance, past the shadows of the hallway and the light diffusing through the decorative glass that frames the door.
But he must see enough. “Are you all right?”
I force a smile. “Yes. Of course.”
“I’m sorry if I was too harsh with you earlier. I just . . . I’m not . . . ” His feet shuffle. His grip tightens and loosens on his cane. His gaze falls to the floor, and it takes a long moment for him to look my way again. “I’m not ready.”
My breath hitches. The shattered points of my heart dig and twist inside me until I’m sure they scrape bone. Even now, Arthur always chooses exactly what he means to say. It’s not only that he’s not ready to leave his home. He’s not ready to leave himself either.
I swallow, painfully. “Me neither.”
“Will you still stay for dinner?”
Grief is a maelstrom, always churning. When one of its currents washes away, another is always there, ready to flood the empty space.
I look down at my phone. My thumb trembles when I press send. For a moment, I just stare at that message. Every beat of time that passes cuts like a blade. Then I put the device in Do Not Disturb mode and slide it into my back pocket.
“Yeah. I’d love to,” I say.
Arthur smiles, turning into the kitchen. Eventually, I do follow. But for a long moment, I stay, trapped on that polished floor.