Sealed with a Kill (8 page)

She opened the door to her Jeep and was greeted by Hank, who was standing on his hind legs while he tried to lick every bit of her face that he could reach.

“Good boy, Hank,” she said. She ruffled his ears, and Nate handed her a soggy tennis ball, which she tossed down the hill. Hank did a double-toe-loop leap of glee and set off after it.

Brenna wiped her face with her sleeve, aware that Nate was still giving her his unhappy face.

“What?” she asked. “Is my rent overdue?”

“You know that’s not it,” he said. “What’s this I hear that you and Tenley are going to look into the murder of Harvey Lester?”

“How did you . . . Have you been talking to the Porter sisters?”

“I went into town to return a library book, and Lillian Page told me that Sarah Buttercomb said that you and Tenley were going to try to clear her father.”

“Since when have you been on such good terms with Lillian?”

“She always saves the latest Robert Crais novel for me,” he said. “We were just making idle chitchat and . . .”

“And it just happened to turn into a conversation about the body in the woods and Tenley and me.”

“Well, the body in the woods is news all over town,” he said. “So, it’s really not that surprising that we’d be talking about it.”

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed.

Hank bounded back with the ball in his mouth and dropped it at Nate’s feet. He threw it overhand much farther than Brenna ever could, and Hank bolted after it, kicking up leaves and grass in his wake.

“Is it true?” Nate asked.

“Is what true?” Brenna asked, stalling.

“You know what,” he said.

“That Tenley and I are going to try to clear her father?” Brenna shouldered her purse and started walking down the hill toward her cabin. “Yes, it’s true.”

“I don’t like this,” he said. He fell into step beside her. “Not one little bit. Chief Barker is a good man, and he’ll find the killer. You and Tenley need to stay out of it.”

“She’s my best friend,” Brenna said as she stepped up onto her porch. “How can I say no?”

“Simple. N-O,” he said.

“You know it’s not that easy,” Brenna said. “I know Chief Barker is a good man, but I also know what it’s like to be wrongly accused of a crime. The police miss things sometimes, and they make mistakes.”

“Brenna, you have to let go of what happened to you in Boston.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

She turned to face him. He wasn’t frowning anymore. He was looking concerned. It gave Brenna a case of the guilts, and she decided having him annoyed with her was infinitely more appealing than having him feel sorry for her.

“Listen, everyone has a past,” he said. “But it is the past, and you can’t let it dictate the rest of your life.”

“Really?” Brenna asked. “Because yours certainly dictates your life by the simple fact that you never talk about it. Other than your public life as an artist, before you retired, I don’t know anything about you.”

“Sure you do,” he said. But he looked defensive, and Brenna knew she had struck a nerve.

“I know you like baseball, you have a sweet tooth, and you love your dog. I know you were once a worldrenowned artist, who got tired of the art scene and retired here. That’s all I know about you. I don’t know where you grew up, what kind of kid you were, or if you’ve ever been in love. I don’t even know why you quit being an artist.”

“None of that’s relevant to who I am now,” he said.

“Yes, it is, because it makes you who you are,” Brenna said. “You know everything about me. You know I grew up in Boston; you know I went to Boston University with Tenley; you know I was working at an art gallery when it was robbed. You even know that I was framed for the burglary and suffered a mild case of agoraphobia because of it.”

Nate opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand, stopping him.

“Don’t tell me the past doesn’t dictate the choices we make,” she said. “I can’t let go of what happened to me in that burglary in Boston just because it’s in the past. It changed who I am. It made me more cautious and careful, but it also taught me to look beneath the surface of things. People and situations are not always what they appear to be at first glance.”

“Solving every crime that comes along in Morse Point won’t change the way that burglary went down,” Nate said. “You can’t change the past.”

“I know that,” Brenna said. “But you can learn from it. In the past two years, Morse Point has become my home, and I like it here. I don’t want to feel like I’m not safe here, and if it helps me to feel more secure by asking questions and helping to solve a crime, well, then I’m in.”

“You could be putting yourself in harm’s way,” Nate said. He leaned against the porch rail while she fished her keys out of her bag. “I don’t like that.”

Brenna turned to face him. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why. Was he worried because he cared about her in a romantic sense? Or was he worried that he’d have to find another tenant if she managed to get herself killed?

“Nate!” a voice called from the cabin beyond Brenna’s.

They glanced over to see Siobhan standing on her porch and waving at Nate. She had changed since their hike this morning and looked adorable in a denim skirt and curve-hugging sweater paired with knee-high brown leather boots.

He smiled and waved in return. Brenna had to squelch the urge to kick him.

“I’d better go see what she wants,” he said.

Brenna wondered if it was just her or did he seem overly eager to go visit the new tenant? Either way, she did not like the green-eyed monster that was gnawing at her insides like Hank ripping the stuffing out of a chew toy.

“Yeah, you’d better go,” she said. “You might want to line yourself up a new dog sitter if I get myself killed.”

Nate was about to step off the porch, but instead turned back to her with one eyebrow raised higher than the other. His steely gray gaze would not allow her to squirm away, even though she wanted to kick herself for sounding like such a petulant brat.

“Is that what you think?” he asked. “That I only consider you my own personal dog sitter?”

Brenna had the grace to flush as she looked down to examine the toes of her shoes. “Well, I . . .”

Her voice trailed off. The truth was that she had no idea how Nate felt about her and no idea how to tell him that.

“This probably isn’t the best time for this conversation,” he said. As if to prove his point, Siobhan hollered again from her porch, “Nate!”

“Probably not,” Brenna agreed.

“But we do need to have a conversation,” he said. “There’s more between us than our mutual love for Hank and baseball.”

“And baked goods,” Brenna added.

He gave her a slow smile. “That, too.”

He turned to step off her porch but then abruptly spun back around.

“To answer your questions, I grew up in a small town in northwest Newyorkachusetts, which means Connecticut. I went to the Art Institute of Chicago, where I studied traditional art. And yes, I have fallen in love.”

Brenna felt her heart plummet into her stomach. Was she imagining it or had his gaze intensified on that last sentence? She swallowed hard.

“So, I’ll see you later?” he asked.

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. She noticed her voice sounded hoarse, and she cleared her throat.

“And we can talk about you investigating this murder, too.”

“Buzz kill,” she said.

He grinned at her before he headed down the steps, and Brenna felt her insides do cartwheels. Oh, wow.

Brenna rifled through her wardrobe looking for an appropriate outfit for a “conversation.” Perhaps she should have nailed Nate down on a specific time that they would be having this conversation, but it never hurt to be prepared.

She was torn between her heather green turtleneck sweater, which made her hazel eyes appear green and made her body seem curvier than it actually was, or her chocolate brown cardigan over a matching brown shell, which made her auburn hair seem redder. Decisions, decisions.

She had turned her cell phone back on, and sure enough there were three messages from Dom. After her talk with Nate, she felt doubly guilty for hanging up on Dom. Although she had always been honest with him, and he knew she had feelings for Nate.

She decided to call him back, but before she could start dialing, a call from Tenley came through.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Brenna, can you meet me at the shop?” Tenley asked. She sounded breathless, as if she’d been running.

“Now?”

“Yes, I have a lead. We must discuss.”

“I’m on my way,” Brenna said.

She dropped both sweaters, grabbed her purse and jacket, and dashed out the door. It was fully dark now, and Brenna flicked on her porch light and locked the door behind her.

“Brenna!” It was Nate coming back to her house.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she called over her shoulder as she ran. “I have to go.”

“But . . .”

“I’ll call you,” she shouted.

She waved over her shoulder as she hurried to her Jeep. Nate would understand, she hoped.

But even if he didn’t, she had no choice. When Brenna’s life had unraveled (she was accused of a crime she didn’t commit, was dumped by her boyfriend, and became afraid of her own shadow), it was Tenley who threw her a lifeline by offering her a job and encouraging her to move to Morse Point. Brenna was pretty sure it had saved her life, and in return, if Tenley asked Brenna for a kidney, it was hers. Luckily, she was only asking for help in finding a murderer.

The center of town was shut down for the evening. Only the Fife and Drum, the movie theater, and Stan’s Diner were still open. Brenna parked in the alley behind the shop and came in through the back door.

She found Tenley pacing around the darkened shop.

Brenna paused in the doorway to study her friend. Her long blond hair was clipped at the nape of her neck, but stray wisps had escaped, giving her that caught-in-a-windstorm look. Her forehead was puckered in a frown, as if she were trying to remember something important but it was eluding her.

“Hey,” Brenna said softly from the doorway. She didn’t want to startle her.

“Thanks for coming,” Tenley said. She crossed the room with her arms wide and hugged Brenna close, as if trying to draw in some of her strength.

“Anytime,” Brenna said. “So, what’s the lead?”

“Well, I’m still working it out,” Tenley said.

“Explain.” Brenna unzipped her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, which she pulled out to sit on.

“While I was at the police station checking on my father, one of Uncle Harvey’s girls came in.”

“He had daughters?” Brenna asked.

“Four,” Tenley said. She took the seat opposite Brenna. “Just like us. I think that’s one of the reasons my dad and Uncle Harvey were so successful. They both had highmaintenance wives and several daughters.”

She gave Brenna a wry smile, and Brenna knew it went without saying that most of the daughters were high-maintenance, too.

“Anyway, Kristin said something that bothered me,” Tenley said. “When I told her how sorry I was, she looked so sad, but then she said, ‘At least we won’t have to be embarrassed by his midlife crisis anymore.’ ”

Brenna raised her eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“I thought so,” Tenley said. “You know I haven’t been welcomed much into the Morse family fold over the past two years, but even I noticed that my parents and the Lesters were spending less and less time together. I mean, we used to go on vacations, have barbecues, and our parents were always at the country club together.”

“Why do you suppose that changed?” Brenna asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to have my suspicions,” Tenley said. “You know how my father is.”

“Jolly, carefree, a real card,” Brenna said.

A smile flashed across Tenley’s features, breaking the tension that had been evident in the tight lines around her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said. “Try stern, judgmental, and inflexible.”

“Silly me,” Brenna said. “I must have had him mixed up with Jay Leno.”

“It’s the chin,” Tenley said. “Happens all the time.”

It was Brenna’s turn to laugh.

“So, what’s your theory?” Brenna asked.

“What if Uncle Harvey was having a midlife crisis, of which my father didn’t approve?”

“So he shot him?” Brenna asked, horrified.

“No, no, I don’t think my father is the killer,” Tenley said. “He could never harm anyone, but he is a big shunner.”

“Ah, yes, the highly favored method of punishment among the privileged: the shunning,” Brenna said. Her own parents were big on shunning, so she could relate.

“That would explain why there seemed to be a rift between them,” Tenley said. “It would also explain why Uncle Harvey wanted out of the business.”