Chapter Transplant
TRANSPLANT
Harper
ARTHUR AND I STAND IN front of the grand piping plover topiary, our heads tilted as we scrutinize the pinnacle of his elaborate garden display, a gentle rain tapping on our jacket hoods.
When Arthur took over my failed moose, I didn’t expect this to be the result.
And judging by his weak “Behold!” a moment ago when we halted before the pair of manicured green birds, neither did he.
I wait until Arthur has a mouthful of coffee before I declare, “It looks like two penises.”
Arthur sputters a sip of his latte across the grass and glares at me. He’s likely more offended about the loss of a mouthful of espresso than the penis comment, since he’s only allowed one true coffee per day before being forced to switch to chai as a compromise. “It does not.”
“I’m not necessarily complaining. It’s hot. I mean, I’m all for the phallic imagery. But I don’t know if Mayor Patel will endorse penis topiaries for the ten-year anniversary of the gardening competition, ya know?”
A deep, long-suffering sigh empties from the old man. “It really does look like a pair of penises.”
“How are we going to fix it?” I ask as we start toward the manor house.
“I’m not sure yet,” he replies, stabbing his cane into the damp lawn. “But we need to find a solution quickly. I received notice this morning that the first round of judging will start next week. The voting council will visit on July 7th.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
“Why the hell did you assign me to making topiaries in the first place?”
“Because I thought you had some artistic talent given your former career making videos and such.” He waves a wrinkled hand in my direction. “Clearly, I was mistaken.”
I snort, darting a teasing grin at him. “Making videos is a lot different than manipulating foliage into animal shapes, Arthur.”
I receive a grumble in reply.
We fall into silence as we enter the house and head to the kitchen.
Arthur sits in the breakfast nook and opens his newspaper while I start making his breakfast. The front-page headlines hit me like a dread-laced dart when I sit across from him.
Homicide Investigation Continues at Lancaster Distillery reads one, and Arthur mumbles something about murder being good for business in Cape Carnage, which I’m inclined to agree with, though it’s been rather frightening lately to be on the production end of said business.
Search for Missing Tourists Enters Second Day, the second headline proclaims above Evanston’s smiling photograph, and thoughts of Nolan at the command center creep through my mind.
Yates might be lazy as fuck and is probably ready to call off the search so he can go back to fishing and barbecues, but it’s still unsettling to imagine Nolan spending so much time with the town sheriff.
“Our inept sheriff was attacked at my distillery?” Arthur says, his eyes sharpening at me over the edge of the paper.
“You mean Lukas’s distillery?” My quip earns me a sharp glare, and I suppress a fleeting grin. “Apparently so.”
“Hmm.” He taps along the edge of the paper, his eyes not shifting from mine. “Seems strange for amateur investigators to attack each other and then a sheriff, does it not?”
I shrug and try to will the heat from rising in my cheeks. “Such are the mysteries of life.”
Arthur snorts. “And what about that obtuse gremlin of a man with the ghastly excuse of a canine? Is he still in the freezer?” he asks, skimming the continuation of the article on the following page.
“No. Let’s just say the dahlias will flourish this year.”
“Good.”
Arthur flips to the next page with flair, clearly done with any thoughts of homicide investigations or missing persons. I should be prodding him to see what else he remembers about that night, just to be sure we haven’t missed something that could rise to the surface like a bloated body.
Or maybe I should be telling him about the Sleuthseekers and how I can feel the cage closing around me with every moment that passes.
I should be sharing the fear that creeps beneath my skin, to see if he can lance what feels like a festering wound.
But instead, I ask him something I’ve never asked Arthur Lancaster: “When did you know you were in love with Vivian?”
Arthur’s eyes snap to mine and stick. For a moment, I wonder if he’s already forgotten his wife.
It’s been so many years since she passed away—even before Arthur lost Poppy to La Plume and took on the job of raising Lukas on his own.
His eyes drift to the corners of the room, and I wonder if he’s searching for her in his memory.
Trying to recall her laugh. The color of her eyes.
He lays the newspaper down as he fidgets with the edges, then swallows and says, “Since the day she showed up in Cape Carnage.”
I didn’t expect such a clear answer, and as I bring over his bowl of yogurt and sliced strawberries, I make a mental note to tell Lukas about Arthur’s lucidity later. When I sit across the table from him, he doesn’t acknowledge me or the food. “You knew from day one?”
“From moment one,” he says, his focus lowering to the table. “I never thought it could be possible. How could someone like me fall in love? And with someone I didn’t even know.”
“Did you . . . ” I start, but I trail off. Arthur’s attention settles on me with a question in his knit brows. “Did you worry that you would fuck it up?”
Arthur barks a laugh, a rare and precious sound. “Of course. Constantly.”
“And you still let it happen?”
“I tried to stop it,” Arthur says, and my brows rise, encouraging him to continue. “I discovered it was impossible. As much as I needed Vivian, she needed me too. As it turns out, I couldn’t deny her anything she wanted, no matter how hard I tried.”
I nod, a knot building in the back of my throat as I replay my conversation with Nolan this morning.
If he was disappointed when I told him I was afraid, he didn’t show it.
But it must have stung. And how many cuts can someone take before they give up?
Even Nolan Rhodes must have a limit, surely.
What if I’m not as brave as Arthur—what if I can’t let go of my fear and love Nolan the way he needs?
I’m so lost in these questions that I don’t notice Arthur’s hand move until it lands on top of mine. “What do you really want to ask me?” he says.
I blink back the well of tears that blur my vision. “Would you do it again, after everything you’ve lost?”
The echo of a smile settles in Arthur’s features.
He squeezes my hand. “I cannot escape the despair of watching Vivian’s health decline.
Nor the grief for how Poppy was torn from me.
I will always carry with me the anger and frustration of searching for her killer for years and finding no trace, as though he never existed.
But the moments of happiness we shared and the memories I still carry were worth the suffering.
A thousand times over, I would do it again. ”
He pats my hand, and then lets go. I nod my thanks, not ready to trust my voice with words of gratitude. But Arthur knows just what I need. He lifts his newspaper from the table, creating a curtain between us so I can capture the tears before they fall.
“I know you didn’t have parents you could ask these questions to,” he says from the other side. The paper lowers just enough that he gives me one of his eyes. “So you can always ask me these things, Harper. If you want to.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Who is this man you’re not in love with, by the way . . . ?”
I stare at the headline of the newspaper, choking down a painful knot. “His name is Nolan. You met him briefly at the theater. Nolan Rhodes.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Rhodes.” Arthur turns a page on his newspaper. “If you decide you really don’t love him, I have some poison in my murder bag that you refuse to give back to me. You can use some, if you like.”
Arthur doesn’t see my bittersweet smile, nor the tear that escapes my lashes to slide down my cheek. “I’ll take that into consideration. Thank you, Arthur.”
He slides his yogurt closer. A quiet grumble is his only reply.
When Arthur is settled into his morning routine, I head into town for supplies from Maya’s, my canvas shopping bag slung over one shoulder and my hood pulled up against the drizzling rain.
The streets are quiet. My boots slap through the shallow puddles in a soothing beat.
The cold drizzle is oddly comforting, though worries about Nolan creep into my thoughts.
I wonder what he’s doing. Likely looming over the search, the picture of authority despite secretly usurping it.
Desire twists low in my belly when I think of him at the command center, leaning over maps, giving orders into his walkie-talkie.
Maybe he’s striding through the forest paths with his high-vis vest on.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, because that’s fucking hot.
It’s all mayhem and safety wrapped together in a highly visible, murdery sex package. With dimples. It’s disgustingly sexy.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and open my messages.
Are you wearing high vis?
Nolan’s reply is immediate.
Uhh, yes.
And your walkie-talkie?
Yes . . . is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Apparently, it’s a good thing. But before I can tell him that, he starts typing a new message, so I leave him hanging until his reply comes through.
Are we going to do some SAR role-play where I hunt you down and fuck you in the woods while wearing my vest?
. . . No . . .
That “no” was definitely a yes.