Guilty silence, p.23
Guilty Silence, page 23
“I think I’ve been pushing too hard,” I confess, letting my body slump. “I’ve run out of steam and we haven’t even opened the doors yet.”
“Hey, it’s been a bit of a crazy month, and even before that I don’t think you ever took a break. Maybe it’s time you did, cut yourself a little slack.”
“I can’t now, I have the appetizers to get ready, arrange them on trays, set them out on the buffet table we have set up. Then I have to change and try and make myself presentable.” I glance up at the kitchen clock. “And I have less than five minutes to do it.”
He stops me when I try to launch myself off the counter, and frames my face with his large hands.
“Go change, do whatever you think you need to do to clear your mind and get yourself ready. You can be fashionably late. I’ll take care of the appetizers and if I need help, I’ll ask Lola. You have a crew of people here who can cover for you.”
He presses a hard kiss to my mouth, as I’m about to launch a protest, before he releases me.
“You need to take care of yourself or you won’t even make the wedding this weekend.”
Oh God, the wedding.
My knees almost buckle at the thought of the list of things I still have to do to make sure my best friend’s day is perfect.
His final point hits home; if I don’t take a breath, I’ll burn out before the weekend.
Hopping down from the counter, I start pointing out what appetizers go on what tray, but it seems Hugo’s losing his patience with me.
“They want your food, they don’t care what damn tray it’s served on,” he grumbles. “You’re wasting time.”
He’s right, I am. With one last glance around the disaster zone that is my kitchen, I grab the bag I brought this morning and dart down the hall and up the stairs to use my old bathroom.
In large part the apartment is unchanged, except for a few things that pop out at me. An unfamiliar book upside down on the coffee table, waiting to be picked up again. A sweater hanging off the dining room chair. A footstool I don’t recognize by the couch. But what stands out more than anything else, are the plants. Lush greenery invaded every available sunny spot in the room.
It almost looks like a greenhouse in here. I love it. This is what I always envisioned with these beautiful old windows letting in all that light, but sadly, I do not possess a green thumb. I’ve effectively killed every plant I ever bought. But Lola obviously has a gift.
Standing in the middle of my old apartment, I try to gauge whether I feel any regret, but I don’t. I’ve loved this place, but I wouldn’t want to come back. It’s crystal clear to me Lola belongs here now.
As Hugo suggested, I’m fashionably late when I walk into the coffee shop—moderately presentable—fifteen minutes later. I could hear the buzz of voices in the hallway but did not expect the crowd of people I find inside. It looks like every single table is occupied and, in addition, people are walking around, checking out all the artwork on the walls.
It looks like they are as impressed as I was when Phil first showed me her beautiful paintings. They are as colorful and unpredictable as the artist herself, using an eclectic blend of art mediums—watercolor, charcoal, ink, oil, pastels, acrylics—to create amazingly realistic pieces. Buildings, landscapes, people, objects, nature, it seems she finds inspiration everywhere.
“There she is!”
To my shock, Mayor Merrick makes a beeline for me through the crowd. I’m tempted to look over my shoulder to see if someone else entered behind me, because this would be the first time the man’s ever acknowledged my existence.
Phil walks up behind him, making a face I have a hard time not laughing at. I don’t think the mayor is anyone’s favorite person.
“I am delighted to see you’ve decided to elevate the decor with these stunning pieces by our resident celebrity,” he gushes, pumping my hand in his clammy one. I make a mental note to scrub my hands after. “This will surely bring in a higher standard of clientele.”
Higher standard? Should I be insulted? After all, we already had everyone in this small town dropping in on the regular, so I’m not exactly sure who he’s talking about. But before I can question him on the subject, he’s already rambling on.
“Had I known, I would’ve been happy to contribute to this worthy endeavor. I still could.”
Phil claps a casual hand on his shoulder, which seems to startle him.
“You know, Don, as I said to you before, I’m pretty sure Bess and I have things covered, but we sure do appreciate the gesture.”
That seems to take the wind out of his sails, and with a mumbled excuse of needing a word with someone, he slinks off, his tail between his legs.
“What was that all about?” I ask Phil.
“Oh, he just doesn’t like the attention on anything other than himself, that’s all,” she explains. “In fact, he suggested changing the name of the coffee shop to give it a bit more cachet.” She makes a face and adds, “His words, not mine. I think he secretly wants his name connected to the community fund, so he can go down in history as the town’s great benefactor.”
That wouldn’t surprise me.
“So other than that, how has the response been so far?”
“Already sold a painting.”
I turn to her with my mouth wide open. “Are you kidding me?”
She grins wide.
“Nope. The big triptych of Silence.”
The triptych she’s referring to is technically three paintings that together form a panoramic view of the town and the entire valley. It’s a large piece, which is why we put it up on the long wall.
“Who bought it?”
She looks around. “He seems to have disappeared. It was an older gentleman. I can’t recall ever seeing him in town before, but he said his name is Peter Abel. Lola took his payment and said he told her he’d be back in the morning to pick it up.”
“That’s amazing. That deserves a toast,” I announce.
“What are we toasting to?” Hugo asks as he approaches.
“Phil sold a painting.”
She bumps my shoulder. “We sold a painting,” she corrects me. “The first clank of coins hitting the bottom of our Silence Community Fund.”
Hugo reaches over, plucks a couple of glasses of champagne off the table, and hands them to us, before grabbing one for himself. Then he lifts his glass to us.
“Well, that certainly deserves congratulations.”
Chapter 29
Bess
* * *
I hum along with a Stevie Nicks tune on the radio as I drizzle some lemon icing on my coconut squares.
It was a real treat to come in early this morning and find the kitchen—which I never got around to cleaning up last night—in immaculate condition. I’m sure that was courtesy of Lola, who I insisted take the day off today. She’s been working her butt off, and I’m excited for her to discover the raise I’m giving her on her next paycheck. Emmet gets a bump too, but Lola has really stepped up during construction, but also in getting the shop ready to open when I was still mostly focused on looking after Hugo. Hers will come with the brand-new job title of manager as well, and Emmet will be offered the option of going full time.
I’m happy to be doing the bulk of the baking, if that means I can be home at a reasonable hour. But Lola has already proven herself capable in the kitchen, able to follow a recipe and do the baking herself, so if I wanted to take a day, or a few days off, business would keep running as normal.
It’s funny, I wouldn’t have even considered taking a vacation before, but Hugo mentioned something about always having wanted to visit the East Coast, and now it’s all I can think about. Maybe in September, after the height of the summer season, but when it’s still nice out.
Grabbing the tray of pastries, I walk into the coffee shop, sliding the tray into the display case. This morning, we have jalapeño cheese scones, morning glory muffins, blueberry crumble muffins, apple Danish, and the lemon coconut squares I just finished. Next, I will tackle the sourdough bread, which has been rising in the proofing drawer.
I glance at the new painting Phil put up after the party last night to replace the triptych, which is now wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the wall in the back hallway, waiting to be picked up. I haven’t turned on all the lights, but there’s enough to see the new piece. It’s a single, large painting featuring Angus, Brant Colter’s goat, stealing colorful underwear off a clothesline, with a familiar view of the creek and mountains in the background. I smile remembering the funny story that signaled the start of Brant and Phil’s unlikely pairing, which inspired this painting.
I turn to head back to the kitchen when I’m stopped with a knock on the front door. I see an older man wearing glasses and one of those Peaky Blinders caps. I have no doubt this is the buyer, Peter Abel. Lola mentioned the cap.
Dismissing a brief feeling of apprehension, I unlock the door, poking my head outside.
“Mr. Abel?”
I notice the man is alone. At the curb, a gray sedan is parked with its trunk already open.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m early,” the man apologizes right off the bat.
“No, no, that’s quite all right,” I hurry to assure him, opening the door wide. “Please come in, your painting is packed and ready to go.”
He enters, taking his cap off as he passes me. I quickly close the door and follow him inside.
“It’s in the back hallway. Let me get it for you.”
Slipping past him, I duck into the back hallway and grab the wrapped paintings off the floor, but when I turn I almost bump into him. He’s followed me back here.
Unlike the coffee shop, the hallway is well-lit and it’s the first time I get a good look at Peter Abel. He’s balding, something I hadn’t noticed earlier, and there is something familiar about him.
“You know, you look just like your mother.”
Immediately the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
What the hell? Who is this man?
“My mother is dead.”
He nods, a sober expression on his face.
“I know, and I’m so sorry.”
I’m confused, and more than a little uneasy, but I’m also intrigued.
“How did you know my mother?”
“I knew her a long time ago, you wouldn’t remember,” he informs me with a kind smile. “But she spoke of Silence frequently. Described it in great detail.” He coughs a little and blinks his eyes, as if fighting off emotion. “I never visited before, but it’s every bit as beautiful as she mentioned. That’s why I bought the painting, I’ll take it with me as a reminder of this visit.”
I’m still in the dark, hungry for more answers.
“If you’d never been here before, what brought you to Silence now?”
He looks down at the toes of his perfectly shined shoes, before lifting his eyes to me.
“You.” Then he looks back down, shaking his head. “I’ve never been here before, but I’ve kept tabs. First on your mother, and then on you. I never intended to set foot in Silence, had sworn I would never intervene in any way, but then I received word you might be in danger.”
I shake my head and start backing up into the kitchen, but he follows me at a generous distance.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. All you need to know is that you can breathe easy. That’s the only reason I’m here now, to tell you you have nothing to fear. I was too late for the first one, but I made sure there is no one left to worry about.”
I suck in a breath when he reaches into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, but what he produces isn’t some kind of weapon, but a simple blank white envelope.
“This is not for you to open. I ask that you pass it on to Chief Deputy Alexander. He will know what to do with it.”
Then he places it on the counter.
The next instant he’s gone, and for a moment I stand frozen, wondering what the hell just happened, but when I hear the front door of the coffee shop slam shut, I dart back out into the hallway. The three packages holding the triptych that were stacked against the wall are gone. When I poke my head into the coffee shop and glance out the front window, I’m just in time to see the vehicle that was parked outside take off down the road.
“I heard you talking.”
I jump a foot in the air when I hear Lola’s voice behind me.
“Who was that?” She wants to know.
I turn around, feeling like I’ve just escaped the twilight zone.
“I think that may have been my father.”
Hugo
* * *
“This is great, man. I’m happy for you.”
I clap Clem Tanek on the shoulder.
He’s just given me a tour of the work he is doing on the old fire hall. Already the place is filling with mostly new equipment and tools, since nearly all of his inventory was lost in the fire.
“Yeah. It’s coming together nicely, and I have you to thank for it.”
I snicker. “I just reminded you this place was vacant. That’s all.”
“Yeah, well, let me be grateful for once. It doesn’t happen often,” he adds jokingly.
I’d seen Nate’s work truck and a few other contractor vehicles back here since I came back to work, and was curious to see what was going on. Clem explained he’d needed to upgrade the electrical, make some minor modifications to the floor plan, and slap on some fresh paint.
“Anybody here?”
A woman’s voice drifts up the stairs where Clem was just showing me his new office.
“Up here!” Clem hollers, and to me he explains, “Real estate agent. I had some final paperwork to sign.”
“Hey, Rowan,” I greet the woman who pokes her head around the door post.
“Hugo, are you following me? Didn’t we just talk this morning?” she teases with a grin. “You’re gonna have to be patient; your listing won’t be up for another couple of days.”
“I know.”
I gesture for her to take the vacant visitor chair.
“What, are you selling?” Clem wants to know.
“Bess and I are buying Phil’s place.”
“For real? You’re gonna live in old man Colter’s backyard? Voluntarily?”
He’s kidding. I happen to know he plays poker with Brant Colter just about every Thursday night at The Kerrigan. I was invited to play a time or two years ago but, at the time, I didn’t want to be in a situation where I’d be taking my boss’s money. Of course, a lot has changed since then, but I’ve never really been big on gambling with my money. I had a kid to pay for and then, of course, came the hospital bills for Emily’s care and treatments.
“It’s far enough away, and we like the peace and quiet,” I respond, as I get to my feet. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I’ll catch both of you later.”
I just come walking out of one of the big bay doors when I catch sight of Bess, her hair flying behind her as she comes running across the station’s parking lot.
“Whoa, what’s the matter?”
She doesn’t stop and runs straight into my arms.
“Jesus, Twinkie, what’s going on?”
“I was looking for you at the station but Brenda said you were over here.”
“Why were you looking for me?”
She leans back and looks up at me.
“I couldn’t get away from the coffee shop until now, but I had the strangest visitor this morning.”
Flags go up immediately.
“What do you mean, visitor?”
“His name is Peter Abel—at least that’s what he calls himself, I googled and can’t find anything about that name—and he’s the guy who bought Phil’s painting yesterday.”
“Right, he was supposed to pick it up today.”
“Yes, but he showed up early, and he said he knew my mom and the painting reminded him of her. I have to admit, I was a little freaked out, especially when he said he’d been keeping tabs on me, and he knew about my brother and the Lotus Squad, but then—”
“He what?” I cut off her ramble. “He kept tabs on you?”
“Yes, but I think he was making sure I was safe.”
She grabs my forearms and leans in, deep blushes on her cheekbones and her eyes shining with excitement.
“And guess what? I think he may be my father.”
Her father?
I press the heels of my hands against my eyebrows to stop the headache I feel building.
“I think you need to slow down and tell me from the beginning,” I calmly suggest. “Let’s sit down in my office.”
I grab her hand and we walk to the station, where I rush Bess through the lobby and into my office, closing the door behind us.
Then she gives me the whole story from the beginning, handing me a white envelope at the end.
“He told me to give this to you and not open it, but I’ve been dying to know what’s inside.”
I’m pretty curious myself, and use my finger to rip open the envelope. Inside I find what looks like a Polaroid picture and a plain sheet of paper.
I pull out the paper first and read the single line written on it in black ink.
* * *
To kill a two-headed snake both heads have to roll.
* * *
Then I start removing the Polaroid from the envelope, but as soon as I get a glimpse of the gruesome picture, I quickly shove it back inside.
“What is it?”
“A picture you don’t want to see. Stay here, I have to get this to Rick Althof.”
I snag the sheet of paper off my desk and press a kiss to the crown of Bess’s head.
“I’ll be right back.”
Althof is at his desk in the bullpen, and when I catch his eye, he immediately gets to his feet. I lead him into the conference room and close the door behind him. In a few sentences I get him up to speed before handing him the envelope.
First, he pulls a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket, before taking the envelope. Then he spreads open the piece of paper and extracts the Polaroid, laying them both down on the table in front of him as he hisses between his teeth.
