8. Shake and Strain
EIGHT
Shake and Strain
TO POUR INGREDIENTS AND ICE INTO A SHAKER TIN TO SHAKE AND DRAIN THE LIQUID OUT OF THE TIN
“Kik—er, Sheriff Forrester.”
Not since her senior year at William Cullen Bryant High, when Mr. Hill had busted Tony Bianchi getting a blowie from the marching band’s student teacher in the woodwind closet, had Maggie seen someone get their pants buckled so quickly.
That it was McGarvey now behaving like he’d been caught with his hand—or other applicable piece of anatomy—in the cookie jar somehow made it considerably less entertaining.
That McGarvey was behaving this way while Maggie still sat with her knees wide enough to straddle a Clydesdale while a drop-dead gorgeous woman who looked like she might run triathlons for fun stood in the doorway?
That shit there brought a tsunami of scalding shame.
As McGarvey had done, Maggie quickly rearranged herself, willing the I just came hard enough to permanently alter my brain chemistry scarlet to recede from her cheeks.
“Finish waiting for the cable guy, did you?” Sheriff Forrester asked in a smoky voice that she could probably charge men $2.99 a minute to listen to.
“Yes—no—I mean, they rescheduled,” McGarvey sputtered.
The sight of him, normally so composed and self-assured, tripping over his words like a teenager caught jerking it in the back row at church was downright unsettling.
Only when his tackle was fully stowed did McGarvey address her.
“Gotcha.” Kiki wandered further into the basement, boots clicking on the concrete floor. “Now if I could only figure out what you’re doing in the basement of this building despite not having the owner’s permission or any understandable legal purpose, we’d really have something here.”
Maggie glanced at Trent, who had sprouted a sheen of sweat on his smooth brown forehead. Surely, as they apparently had a working relationship, he would offer up some plausible explanation any second now.
Or minute.
Or—
“Mermaids!” Maggie blurted.
Both McGarvey and Sheriff Forrester turned to look at her—McGarvey concerned, Sheriff Forrester amused.
“That’s right,” Trent said at last, gesturing vaguely at the dusty shelves. “So, uh, I was accompanying Miss Michaels on a tour of the Palace Hotel for a journalistic endeavor that she’s currently pursuing, documenting mermaid motifs in Townsend Harbor’s historic buildings.”
“I see,” the sheriff said, the lines of her probably yoga-toned forearms flexing as she crossed them over her chest and made a show of looking around the basement. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we don’t currently seem to be in the Palace Hotel. And though I know Miss Michaels is an employee of Sirens, she’s not currently on shift.”
Maggie’s heart began to thump harder, and clammy sweat coated her palms.
So, Sheriff Smoke Show not only knew who she was and where she worked, she knew her schedule as well?
Why this rankled her so when they’d never even met, she wasn’t certain. But she suspected it might have something to do with the fact that the woman standing before her had the power to turn McGarvey into a stuttering, foot-shuffling schoolboy.
McGarvey lifted a hand and scratched the back of his neck.
“Yes, well—” Trent shifted his weight, avoiding Kiki’s gaze.
“What’s it to you?” The words snapped from Maggie’s mouth like the crack of a whip, sharpened by the edge of the East Coast burr she’d tried so hard to lose after leaving Deer Park for Boston.
McGarvey’s head swung toward her, his eyes telegraphing something like censure. Or panic.
Which only served to augment Maggie’s irritation.
The sheriff, on the other hand, remained cool and even, authority radiating from her carefully neutral expression. “To me, it’s nothing whatsoever. To Kurt, who called to report a break-in and possible assault, it’s a lot.”
Fucking. Kurt.
“Possible assault?” Maggie scoffed, crossing her legs as she sat up straighter on the freezer. “Where the hell did they get that idea?”
The sheriff cocked her head at an angle of birdlike curiosity. “According to dispatch, the caller heard what they thought was a woman scream and thought whoever broke in might have assaulted someone who surprised the intruder in the act.”
Maggie felt her face blanch, and her insides turned to rocky ice. A scream? She hadn’t screamed. Had she? No, no. It had been more of a whimper, really. Or maybe a moan, but definitely not a scream. And surely it hadn’t been that…loud?
Or had it?
If her vocalizations were in any way proportionate to the intensity of the pleasure McGarvey had coaxed from her, she’d have shattered every single one of the small rectangular windows at street level.
The sheriff’s knowing gaze met hers, and Maggie swallowed around what felt like a wad of cotton jammed down her throat. “As part of my investigation, I reviewed historical renderings for the original structure and found an inconsistency with the blueprints provided with the renovation permission from the Townsend Harbor Historical Society.”
“You’re investigating Madame Katz.” The sheriff pronounced this like a declarative sentence rather than a question.
And for reasons Maggie didn’t understand, she found herself confirming it.
“Yes.”
The sheriff’s lips tightened into a line. “No wonder the mayor has his Jockeys in a knot.”
Curiosity gnawed Maggie’s stomach hollow. She wanted nothing more than to press Kiki about what she knew but knew this was neither the time nor place.
“Which is why I secured permission from the historical society to show Miss Michaels the property,” McGarvey offered. “When we discovered another mermaid carving in the passage, we elected to follow where it led, which is where we found this,” he said, holding up the brothel menu.
The sheriff took it, her eyes widening as they flicked over the contents.
“It’s the last one that has us stumped,” McGarvey said. “Any theories?”
As ridiculous as it was, Maggie felt a prickle of irritation creep up her spine. The menu had felt like a secret between the two of them, and by consulting his ranking officer, he’d all but invited her into their investigation.
“Anyway,” McGarvey continued, “after we found that, we followed the passage here, then Miss Michaels noticed what she thought was part of one of those mermaid carvings behind the deep freezer here, and?—”
“You unbuckled your belt in case you needed to create an emergency tourniquet should she accidentally lose a finger reaching behind the freezer as she bent over it to get a picture?” The sheriff looked up from the menu, one expertly tweezed brow lifting.
McGarvey’s Adam’s apple bobbed beneath the clean-shaven skin of his throat. “Something like that.”
They locked eyes as the sheriff handed the menu back, and Maggie felt the cool, damp air shift. Tension crackled between them like a downed power line.
And all at once, the realization hit her like a freight train.
McGarvey’s twitchy nerves, his reluctance to look her in eye, the blurted admissions.
Sheriff Smoke Show and Deputy Trent McGarvey had totally fucked.
Maggie’s lungs felt heavy and tight, her stomach a cold ball in her ribcage.
It wasn’t the first time Maggie had felt like an outsider in this small town steeped in secrets and fueled by gossip, but this revelation stirred up something deeper, more personal. A something that delivered the ruthless knowledge that if the sheriff was McGarvey’s type, then Maggie most definitely was not.
The radio clipped to the sheriff’s belt squawked, and she thumbed a button to silence it.
“As much as I hate to interrupt your important work, I think it would be best that you two head back the way you came. Immediately, if not sooner.”
McGarvey nodded, giving Maggie a please cooperate glance.
Though she knew the sheriff was doing them a favor by allowing them to leave covertly, being shooed away like a scolded teenager sincerely chapped her ass.
Either way, Maggie needed to be where the sheriff was not while at least a couple shreds of her self-esteem remained intact. Scooting down from the freezer, she plucked the folded parchment from McGarvey’s hands and made a beeline for the door to the passage.
“If it were me, I’d talk to Vivian Prescott,” the sheriff called right as Maggie closed her hand over the door handle. “Before she met Myrtle Le Grande and decided to scandalize a small Pacific Northwest town, she earned a Ph.D. in sexual anthropology.”
Beautiful, athletic, powerful, and helpful.
Yep, it was official.
Maggie hated her guts.
Muttering a barely audible “thanks,” she yanked open the door and barreled down the passageway. She didn’t bother to look back to see if McGarvey followed, her steps quickening as her eyes began to sting.
“Hey,” he called, his footsteps echoing on the stone as he loped to catch up with her. “Hold up.”
“When?” Maggie asked.
“When what ?” McGarvey asked, falling into step beside her.
“When did you and the sheriff screw each other’s brains out?”
Maggie pulled ahead again as McGarvey stopped in his tracks. When he saw that she had no intention of waiting for him, he closed the distance, his hand landing on her shoulder to arrest her momentum.
Maggie whirled on him, shrugging away his sanity-stealing touch.
“Hey,” he said, his eyes soft and his voice a calming rumble. “What’s going on?”
Maggie stepped closer, searching his face. His jaw was tight, eyebrows knitted ever so slightly.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled in resignation. “It was one time. Before she was the sheriff and after the department Christmas party. Someone came up with the brilliant idea of a drinking game where we had to take a shot every time Ethan tried to steer the conversation to something work-related.”
“And this was a lot, I’m guessing?” Maggie asked, folding her arms beneath the shelf of her breasts.
“Judy in dispatch ended up horking about a pound of fudge into the Galatea fountain. Deputy Baker got alcohol poisoning and fell down the uptown stairs. Motherfucker is still on administrative leave.”
The blindingly beautiful smile slowly wilted from his face as McGarvey realized his attempt at levity had gone over as well as a turd in the punch bowl.
“We both regretted it nearly the second it was over, and we’ve only ever been colleagues since.” Trent reached for her hand, but she pulled away, the image of him tangled in bedsheets with Kiki Forrester searing itself into her brain. Probably her thighs didn’t even get tired when she rode reverse cowgirl.
“Look, it’s none of my business, okay?” Maggie said. “But next time, at least do me the favor of asking before you decide to dump the details into the lap of one your one-night stands.”
“I was only trying to?—”
“I don’t need your help,” Maggie snapped. “And I certainly don’t need your pity.”
“Pity?” McGarvey’s brows rose in surprise. “No. It’s not?—”
“And it never will be,” she finished for him. “I need to get going. Thanks a metric fuck-ton for your help.”
Without another word, she turned and headed for the exit.
She’d be damned if she let them see her cry.
The bell above the door announced Maggie’s arrival at the Lady Garden, her pocketbook slung over one shoulder and a chip the size of Fenway Park on the other.
“And if you use the oscillate setting, its little ears vibrate like this.” A tiny, gray-haired, granny-aged woman jiggled a hot-pink schlong-shaped vibrator in size donkey at a pair of wide-eyed, middle-aged women whose expensive but pristine gorpcore screamed Midwestern ladies’ trip.
Moving past a display of nipple clamps, Maggie paused in front a delicate confection of floor-length peachy silk and lace.
“And what can I help my favorite bartender with?” a buttery, British-accented voice asked.
Maggie turned to see an elegant woman with silver-blonde hair smiling warmly at her.
“Hi, Vivian,” Maggie said, feeling a rush of genuine affection. “I was actually hoping to engage your expertise on a topic of a historical nature.”
“First of all, I insist that anyone who’s engaged in illegal activity with my wife call me Vee,” she said. “Second, that would be a most welcome change from lecturing hapless men on the mysteries of the G-spot.”
Maggie glanced down at her Manolo Blahnik satin pumps. “I’m sorry about the illegal stuff part. But in my defense, Gabe didn’t tell me he’d engaged her expertise.”
“Oh, pshaw,” Vee said. “It’s a service you’ve done me, actually. If the opportunity for good trouble doesn’t present itself to Myrtle, she’ll most assuredly manufacture her own. And believe me when I say that her aptitude in this regard is truly remarkable.”
“I believe you.” Maggie laughed, her chest tightening at the obvious fondness in Vee’s expression.
Vee’s warm, silky hand found Maggie’s forearm and squeezed. “Why don’t you come on back to my office and I’ll make us some tea.”
“That would be delightful.”
Maggie followed Vee through a parted velvet curtain and stepped into a space lifted straight out of an antique boudoir painting. The office walls, painted in a rich hue of burgundy, were lined with artfully curated shelves that carried a multitude of erotic sculptures from across the globe and time periods. Each artifact embodied the raw and alluring power of human sensuality in its own unique way.
The room was lit by a pair of opulent Art Nouveau lamps, their golden light warming the rich hues of the furniture. An imposing dark oak desk claimed the center stage, and meticulous piles of books and wholesale catalogs with artfully arranged displays of bondage cuffs and ball gags were stacked neatly on one corner.
Now there was a career path she’d never considered. Bondage buyer. That would look good on a business card, right?
Maybe she could do that if this latest stab at a life reboot went the same way as all the rest.
“Now then.” Vee busied herself at a credenza turned bar cabinet, clicking on an electric teakettle and withdrawing two delicate rose chintz teacups from one of the drawers. “Tell me how I may be of service.”
Settling onto the sofa, Maggie quickly summarized her findings, finishing by reaching into her pocketbook to produce the brothel menu.
“Let’s see this, then.” Vee set down the steaming cups as she lowered herself onto the couch next to Maggie and lifted a pair of reading glasses dangling from a probably real gold chain around her neck.
The resiny scent of bergamot floated upward, perfuming the air around them as Vee paged through the pamphlet.
A frown creased the older woman’s brow. “Where did you say you found this again?”
Maggie shifted, suddenly uneasy. “We found it in an armoire in Madame Katz’s room in the Palace Hotel.”
Vee arched one penciled eyebrow. “We?”
Shit.
Maggie had been so careful to make this sound like a singular pursuit when she’d narrated it.
She sighed. No point trying to hide it now. “Yes. Deputy McGarvey and I found it.”
Vee lifted her cup and sipped with effortless grace. “The same Deputy McGarvey who arrested you, Gabe, and my wife?”
Maggie sipped her tea, conscious that she was imitating—poorly—Vee’s aristocratic bearing. “That’s the guy.”
“What a delightful twist.”
Leaning back onto the couch, Vee crossed her legs, a thoughtful expression creasing a face that age hadn’t managed to rob of its classic beauty.
“Ariadne’s Anchor,” she mused. “It’s not a term that I encountered in any of my research, and Victorian brothels were somewhat of a specialty of mine. Which leads me to think it may be code for something. Perhaps a discreet service offered to only certain high-profile clients?”
Maggie nodded slowly. “That makes sense. But what kind of service would be that much more expensive than anything else on the menu?”
Vee tapped her chin thoughtfully with a pearly nail. “Perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way. The names of all of the other items have at least some correlation with the service itself. Which was also the case with the other brothel menus I studied when doing my undergraduate work.”
“Do you happen to remember any of them?” Maggie asked, finding that she wanted to draw this conversation out just to sit in the calming wake of Vee’s voice.
“Oh yes,” Vee said. “‘The Gentleman’s Delight’—that’s just a fancy name for a hand job. And ‘the Duchess’—why, that’s nothing more than your standard sixty-nine. But my personal favorite would have to be the ‘Quivering Quill.’”
“I don’t know if I’m afraid or intrigued to hear what that entailed,” Maggie said.
“Both are applicable in this case,” Vee replied. “Basically, it included inserting a quill anally before using it to write erotic poetry.”
“You’re shitting me,” Maggie said, her eyes flicking to the pen tucked behind Vee’s ear.
“I shitteth thee not,” Vee conceded with a knowing wink. “But as to this particular offering, perhaps the reference to Greek mythology is more important than we realized.”
“Ariadne was the one who helped what’s-his-dick when it came to the maze of the Minotaur, yes?”
“Exactly!” Vee said, her eyes lighting up. “Ariadne was the daughter of King Minos. She gave Theseus a ball of thread to help him find his way out of the labyrinth after defeating the Minotaur.”
“Right,” Maggie said, nodding, “but what does that have to do with…you know, the sexual stuff?” She gestured vaguely at the brothel menu, feeling more out of her depth than ever.
Vee sipped her tea, considering the question. “Well,” she began slowly, “Ariadne is associated with many different symbols and concepts, including passion, mazes, vegetation, snakes, forgiveness, paths, and labyrinths.”
“Okay…” Maggie trailed off. Her brow furrowed as she tried to connect the dots between these seemingly disparate ideas. She wrapped her fingers around her teacup, enjoying the warmth it brought to her chest, even as her thoughts spun like a top.
“Think about it this way,” Vee suggested, leaning forward conspiratorially. “What if ‘Ariadne’ is a metaphor for something else? Something hidden, perhaps, or something that requires guidance to unravel?”
“Like a secret society?” Maggie asked.
“Perhaps,” Vee agreed, her eyes twinkling with intrigue. “Or maybe it’s something simpler. A code word, a password… Only those who know its true meaning would be able to access whatever it represents.”
“Interesting.” Maggie chewed the inside of her cheek, her brain working overtime to process the new information.
“Speaking of Greek goddesses,” Vee said, setting her teacup back on its saucer with practiced grace. “I noticed you admiring the backless Tamara Marjolaine peignoir set. Would you care to try one on?” She gestured toward the delicate silk garment that hung enticingly from a nearby display.
Maggie nearly choked on her tea. “Those kinds of gowns are designed for sexy giraffes like Sheriff Forrester.”
The second the name left her lips, Maggie regretted it. The same scalding tide of irritation and, okay, jealousy came flooding back to her.
She hadn’t heard from McGarvey since she’d made her dramatic exit earlier, and for some damn reason, this really fucking bothered her.
“Darling, are you mad?” Vee replied, waving her hand dismissively. “Do you have any idea how desirable your body type has been throughout history? Had you been born in the neolithic era, they would have built temples to your name and sought your favor with animal sacrifices.”
“I don’t know about that,” Maggie said, “but I wouldn’t mind a sacrifice of some baby-back ribs about now.”
“I’m afraid I’m fresh out,” Vee said, smoothing the hem of her tailored pencil skirt. “But I do happen to have an excellent bottle of champagne, if plying you with it might change your mind about at least trying the set on.”
“Fine.” Maggie sighed dramatically. “But I’m sending you the therapy bill if it further exacerbates the genetic betrayal that is my legacy.”
Pushing herself up from the couch, Vee walked over to the curtain. “Carol, would you be so kind as to set up the Marjolaine peignoir set in a dressing room for Miss Michaels?”
“You betcha,” Maggie heard Carol reply.
“Now then, let’s see about this Brut.” Vee made quick work of uncorking the champagne, somehow managing to both avoid the deafening pop or spill a single drop of the liquid gold while decanting it into slim flutes that were probably real crystal.
Behind the curtain of one of the dressing rooms with the expensive suds in her hand, Maggie eyed the silky confection.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she slipped into the luxurious peignoir, the fabric feeling like a whisper against her skin. The gown cascaded over her body, hugging her curves and flaring from her hips. It was as if the delicate silk had been tailor-made just for her, transforming her from buxom Irish girl next door into a sultry siren.
“All right, let’s see you,” Vee called out.
“Only if you promise not to laugh,” Maggie warned, taking a deep breath before opening the door. “Or vomit.”
Vee’s eyes widened as she sucked in a quick little gasp. “Darling, you must know how absolutely divine you look.”
Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “Look, you don’t have to sell me on it. It’s obviously beautifully made. But I’m still not sure it’s…me.”
Because unlike everything else you own, this probably didn’t fall off a truck.
“I wouldn’t insult you by trying to sell you,” Vee said, sipping her own champagne. “But one thing’s for certain—if Deputy McGarvey sees you in that, he’ll likely need a new pair of trousers.”
“Vee!” Maggie protested, feeling the blush spread to her chest. But she couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through her veins at the thought of his reaction.
“Come on now, don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about it,” Vee teased, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Oh, she had.
Frequently.
Feverishly.
“Really, darling,” Vee continued, her voice warm and rich. “This was made for you, and I insist that you have it. In fact, it’s a gift.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. Though she wasn’t able to remember the exact price, there had been lots of sevens and fours.
“Vee, I couldn’t?—”
“Shh,” Vee hushed her. “Now, let me tell you something about our dear Deputy McGarvey.” She leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “That man has an eye for beauty and a taste for the finer things in life. And you, my dear, are both.” Maggie began to open her mouth, but Vee held up a finger. “A fact that this gown attests to most deliciously, and the reason you must have it. I ask only one thing of you in return.”
Maggie’s antennae began to twitch. “Which is?”
“A piece this lovely deserves a proper seduction. Invite our officer over this evening and practice the temptresses’ art. Who knows,” Vee said, her lips curving in a smile. “It might even bring you closer to answering Ariadne’s riddle.”
Turning back to the three-panel mirror, Maggie met her own eyes. “All right. I’ll take it.”
“Splendid,” Vee said. “Just hand it out and I’ll get it all wrapped up for you.”
Maggie returned to the dressing room, fishing her phone from her purse so she could text McGarvey before she changed her mind.
Or her outfit.
She stared at the screen, tapping out several phrases and deleting them just as quickly.
Want to continue our hunt at my place tonight?
In the mood to help me solve a mystery?
Care to help me break in some more appliances?
Heaving a disgusted sigh, she settled on a simple but practical My place. 8pm tonight.
She hesitated for a moment before hitting send, her stomach doing a rollercoaster lift when it was too late to take it back.
“Well?” Vee asked from beyond the curtain.
“Invitation sent,” Maggie said, carefully lifting off the decadent silk and handing it out. “I just hope I don’t regret it.”
“Relax, darling,” Vee said. “And remember, he’s just a man. A very handsome, charming man, but still just a man.”
“Uh huh,” Maggie said, stepping back into her own clothes. She hadn’t even gotten her bra hooked when her phone buzzed.
I’ll be there.
Maggie exhaled a breath.
Like the decadent negligee, her invitation revealed parts of her she wasn’t used to offering casually.
She had never felt more naked.
Or more alive.