Chapter Capsaicin #2
“I’m taking the piss, Nolan,” she says with an eye roll.
“It’s definitely undetectable. Besides .
. . ” She peers around the corner of the stand.
I follow her gaze through the line for turkey legs to where Sheriff Yates and Deputy Collins are trying to control the scene on the stage, more police officers and security guards rushing to their aid.
Mayor Patel stands off to the side with the microphone, doing her best to instill a sense of calm over the Taste of Terror crowd as the chaos churns before her.
Harper darts a devious little grin over her shoulder. “He’s not actually dead.”
“You sure about that? He looked pretty dead.”
We watch as the paramedics load Tylor onto a gurney and rush him off the stage. His blood-spattered arm drops from the side rail, dangling lifelessly.
“He’ll be fine in seven to ten business days,” Harper says.
Tylor suddenly screams, his body protesting against the nylon straps that hold him to the gurney. His arms flap. His legs kick. He wails an indecipherable message of pain only to spew a fountain of vomit and pass out a second time.
Harper shrugs. “Or maybe ten to fifteen.”
“What if someone saw you? This place is fucking crowded.”
“No one saw me. I’m no amateur, Nolan,” she says with an eye roll.
“It’s not that hard to dump a little poison into someone’s beer when they’re wolfing down the ‘Every Day Is Halloween Poutine’ from the Buoy and Beacon’s stand.
That shit’s distractingly delicious. Probably worked out for him in the end that he coated his stomach in grease before getting up on stage. ”
I drag a hand down my face with a deep sigh. “If he dies,” I say, “that will be really fucking bad.”
“Will it though . . . ?” Harper turns to face me, and I level her with a flat glare. “For a guy who recently chucked another guy off a cliff and drowned him, you’re being really uptight about this whole poison thing.”
My cheeks flare with heat and she flashes me a wicked grin, knowing she struck a mark. “Maybe so. But we can’t just cross one murder off the list only to turn around and commit another one. We just got the Jake issue sorted out.”
“Tylor will be fine. I gave him half a dose. Besides, he didn’t leave me much choice.
” Harper squares her shoulders. Her teasing edge sharpens into menacing determination.
“He started it with the whole ‘have you seen this woman before’ bullshit to Lukas. Then he claimed Sarah Winkle said she thought the woman in the photo might be a certain Harper Starling who lives in the estate’s cottage.
So, thanks to Cuntface McGee down the road, I had to do something. ”
I snort, despite the surge of panic and the acute awareness that Harper is trying to deflect from the seriousness of this situation. “Fucking Winkle.”
“Yeah. And since I can’t kill her . . . yet .
. . I figured I might as well do the next best thing and take Tylor out before he gets any closer.
” Harper glances back around the corner as more people rush by, some of them with blank looks of shock painted across their features.
“Plus, he was kind of a dick to Lukas, so that was a second strike. I didn’t think it would be wise to kill another Sleuthseeker, but nobody said I couldn’t maim one. ”
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “At least this doesn’t add to the never-ending search, I guess.”
Hurt flashes across Harper’s face before she swallows and tamps it down.
I’m not quite sure why. “Yeah, good point,” she replies, though I don’t get the sense that she endorses her own words.
She dusts off her hands and gives me a weak smile.
“Well, we should probably get my bag from the distillery tent and get the fuck out of Dodge. Follow me.”
I nod and follow her lead as we make our way between the vendor booths. But we don’t make it far before someone obstructs our path.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Harper asks, lurching to a halt in the narrow space between a churro stand and a vendor who sells shaved ice that looks like someone hemorrhaged into a paper cup.
“I drove,” Arthur says, his chest puffing with pride.
“Your licensed expired. Two years ago.”
“Bah. That’s a mere technicality. What’s Sheriff Yates going to do, arrest me? I’m an old man, Harper.”
“I think I’ve heard that one before,” I grumble, and though I anticipate what’s coming, it’s still harder than I thought it would be not to shrink from Arthur’s harsh glare.
“You’re the man from the theater,” he says.
He scans me, from my head to my shoes, and when we lock eyes once more, he doesn’t seem that impressed.
That’s probably fair—he’s in a three-piece suit with a tie, a fedora with a red feather, and his beloved wolf’s head cane, while I’m wearing a black T-shirt, tactical pants, and my work boots. “You’re the one with the hands.”
I look down at my palms. “Um . . . yes . . . ?”
“We’re not going to cut off Nolan’s hands today,” Harper says, folding her arms across her chest.
I bristle, my attention shifting between the two killers in my midst. “What?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she clarifies. “Who knows?”
“Harper,” Arthur barks, “I would never cut off someone’s hands.”
“Nolan was there at the cemetery the night you decided to rid Cape Carnage of the ‘vacuous gnat of a man’ who had the ‘ill-mannered purse demon,’” she says in monotone.
There’s a long pause as Arthur considers this. “Oh.” He gives me another long, assessing look and seems to reconsider my attire in a more favorable light. “Fine. In that case: Harper, have you been playing with my Red Tide?”
“You said I could use it, so . . . I used it. Well, half of it. He’ll live. Probably.”
Arthur blinks, his lips curling as though he’s just tasted something sour. “What a waste of good poison. Do you know how difficult it is to make Red Tide?”
“The guy’s from one of those amateur investigator groups, Arthur,” she hisses. “We probably shouldn’t just go around murdering them all.”
“One more can’t hurt.”
Harper sighs dramatically. “I can’t win with you two. You don’t want me to kill him,” Harper says, gesturing toward me, “and you don’t want him to live.” She flaps a hand toward Arthur and rolls her eyes.
Arthur doesn’t seem very concerned with the fact that his poison could leave a bloody trail straight back to Harper.
He grumbles about his precious Red Tide and hemorrhaging and how it’s meant to be “a dramatic catapult into the afterlife, not a fart into the grave,” or some shit.
And I want to tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s doing to her.
How hard she tries to live up to his expectations.
How much she wants to continue his legacy, even if she risks her own happiness to do so.
But then I really look at her. Really see her, beyond the things I want for her.
I see the sparks of mischief in her eyes, the tightness in her cheeks as she tries to suppress a smile.
I hear her laugh at the absurdity of his protests.
I watch her egg him on, commenting about his shoes, ribbing him about his crush on Irene, relishing his half-assed denials.
And the slithering whispers of violence in my veins seem to quiet.
I just want her to be happy. The responsibilities she has to Arthur might seem like a burden from the outside, and some days, I’m sure they feel like a burden to her too.
But he makes her happy. Even though he might be dangerous, I must have faith that she knows what she’s doing.
Because maybe she needs him just as much as he needs her.
“Come on,” Harper says, taking Arthur’s hand and placing it on her arm. “Let’s go see the Lancaster Distillery stand. You’re going to be so proud.”
They make a slow and careful turn. Arthur shuffles every step. Harper doesn’t see his narrowed eyes, the way they stick to me like tar. The silent threat beneath their opaque veil.
I know I have to trust her. But when it comes to Arthur, it might be harder than I thought.