Page 80 of Skin and Bones

He snorted, turning in three circles before settling against my side, his solid warmth a comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.

As I drifted toward sleep, Reynolds’ words echoed in my mind—It wasn’t about the Harbor Development. That was just a cover story. You’re looking in all the wrong places.

If not the development scandal, then what? What secret was worth killing for—not once, but twice?

The answer was out there somewhere. And tomorrow, we’d find it.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

I woke with a jolt, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The bandages on my wrists were stark white in the morning sunlight, a painful reminder that last night hadn’t been a nightmare. My muscles screamed in protest as I pushed myself upright, every inch of my body cataloging new injuries. The skin on my feet felt raw and tender, peppered with splinters from my barefoot sprint across the marina docks.

But instead of the fear I expected to feel, something else surged through my veins—a fierce, crackling energy that had my lips curving into a smile despite the pain. I’d escaped a dirty cop, outsmarted a killer’s plan, and lived to tell about it. Not bad for a tea shop owner whose most dangerous daily activity was usually deciding between Earl Grey and Darjeeling.

“I am woman, hear me roar,” I belted out as I slid from the bed, wincing as my battered feet met the cool hardwood. “In numbers too big to ignore…”

Chowder lifted his wrinkled face from his pillow, his expression a perfect blend of judgment and concern. He snorted once, as if to comment on my newfound feminism, then rolled over to continue his beauty sleep.

“Don’t be such a grump,” I told him, limping to my closet. “Some of us had a very exciting night.”

I stood in my closet in my underwear and bypassed my usual safe choices, pulling out a black-and-white polka-dot halter dress that was very glam Hollywood. The halter neckline plunged lower than my usual styles, and the fitted bodice hugged curves I typically kept under wraps. The bandages on my wrists stood out in stark contrast against the playful pattern—visual proof that I wasn’t the same woman who’d gone to bed two nights ago.

“What do you think?” I asked Chowder, who had deigned to open one eye. “Too much?”

His response was a deep sigh that seemed to originate from his very soul.

“I’ll take that as approval,” I decided, slipping into the dress with only minor contortions to accommodate my injuries.

The house was unusually quiet as I made my way downstairs, each step a reminder of my tender feet. The aroma of bacon and coffee wafted up from the kitchen, making my stomach growl in response. It was after eleven according to the grandfather clock in the hall—we’d all slept late after the previous night’s excitement.

“She lives!” Deidre declared as I entered the kitchen. She stood at the stove in another pair of plaid culottes and a white eyelet blouse. She was wielding a spatula with the confidence of a samurai. “And look at that dress. Someone is feeling feisty.”

“I had a dress like that once in my day,” Dottie said, sitting next to Walt at the table, her hands cupped around a teacup. For some reason she was dressed in baggy denim overalls and a white shirt rolled up to her elbows. “I used to love to go dancing.”

“Which makes it even more perplexing as to why you’re dressed like Farmer Dale,” Bea said, eyeing Dottie’s overalls.

“The lady at the shop told me they were all the rage,” Dottie said. “It’s the twenty-first century, Bea. There’s no need to dress like you’re a cast member from Three’s Company. We’re never too old to get with the times.”

Bea was wearing one of her favorite wigs today—a chin-length bob with spiky bangs—and she’d added a streak of turquoise eyeshadow to the tops of her papery thin lids. Her caftan was decidedly Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company in shades of lime green and her signature turquoise, and I suspected she knew it, otherwise she wouldn’t have looked so put out by Dottie’s comment.

Walt sat at the kitchen table, today’s crossword set before him, though his attention remained fixed on the window. He’d positioned his chair for optimal surveillance of the street.

“I miss my house,” he declared. “I’m too old to sleep in someone else’s bed.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Bea piped in, her Cheshire Cat smile glowing. “A little birdy told me why you missed the historical society fundraiser. Fraternizing with the enemy aren’t you, Walt?”

Walt straightened in his chair and slapped his newspaper onto the table. “I would never betray my country,” he said.

“Hmm,” Bea said. “And how was the opera? That is where you took her, isn’t it? And then a little nightcap at her place?”

I looked at Dottie because she normally kept Bea in check, but she was locked into the story, waiting to hear Walt’s answer. The look Walt was giving Bea made me think he might be okay with a midnight mission to stuff her face in a pillow.

“Patrick took me to an opera once,” I said, taking a step between them to break their line of sight. “The Magic Flute.”

“Hmmph,” Walt said. “German.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Walt,” Dottie finally piped in. “No one wants to listen to an American opera. And I don’t know who you think you’re fooling trying to keep some clandestine arrangement with a woman. You knew Bea would find out. You can’t act all suspicious and not expect her to nose around. It’s what she does.”

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