Page 82 of Dead & Breakfast
Nora’s lip quivered slightly, but she squared her shoulders and continued. “Why is this all on me, anyway? You know why I left. I couldn’t stay after—”
“Seriously? Is this about the city council internship? Because I turned it down.”
Arthur felt rather like a third wheel in their strange but necessary conversation. He stood as still as a statue as they volleyed back and forth, rehashing events he didn’t have the faintest knowledge of.
“You stabbed me in the back, Quinn. You knew how long I worked on my application—you even helped me with it! How could you just swipe it out from under me?”
Quinn shook her head so violently her bun fell out into a loose ponytail. “No, no, I didn’t want the internship.”
“Bull.”
“I didn’t! I wanted you to stay, Nora. I tried to turn it down, tell them to take you instead, but you’d already gone.”
“Yeah, well, it was obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere here. They picked you and the mayor’s nephew. Two typical white kids for their mediocre white town. They were never going to give me a chance. I had to leave, don’t you get it?”
Quinn’s shoulders slumped.
“Why did you even apply if you didn’t want it?” Nora asked, almost a whisper.
“I heard they were taking two interns…I thought it would be fun, us working together. I thought maybe it would convince you to stay after we graduated.” Quinn hung her head, jaw slack. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise, but obviously that backfired.”
“I was so angry…” Nora spoke as if through a dream, pulling memories up by the roots and laying them bare. “I didn’t want to talk to you ever again.”
“Yeah, I got that when you stopped responding to my emails and calls. Eventually I just stopped trying. And when you showed up again out of the blue, I guess all those feelings came back. It was like I was eighteen again and you’d abandoned me.” Quinn sighed heavily. “And I guess it must have felt like that for you, too. Like I’d betrayed you.”
“Sounds like we both have reasons to be sorry.” Nora took a step forward, then another and another until they were only a few feet apart. She extended her hand, palm up.
Quinn shook it, blinking rapidly. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but there was a small, reserved smile on her lips. Nora returned the expression.
Arthur could almost feel Sal’s breath on his neck, whispering,Now kiss. But, of course, that was only an invention of his mind. Someday maybe he would get to tell Sal how right he’d been. For now, he’d have to be content with witnessing the beginnings of reconciliation.
“As lovely as this is, perhaps we should turn our attention back to the matter at hand,” Arthur said, stepping forward with a little wave. Quite pathetic, probably, but effective nonetheless.
Nora and Quinn, hands clasped, turned to face him. Judging by their expressions, they’d both quite forgotten he was present.
“Oh god, yeah. Sorry,” Nora said.
“Oh no…” Quinn bit her lip. “Arthur, I’msosorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to being ignored, I just—”
“Not about that,” Quinn cut in. “About them.”
A siren hit the air and flashing blue and red lights danced in the trees.
Arthur turned slowly on the spot to face a line of police cars, including the sheriff’s green Mustang.
“Arthur Miller, you’re under arrest!” McMartin shouted.
It was the moment Arthur had been dreading since Lore told him his bite marks matched Brody’s wound. But despite himself, Arthur smiled as he handed his umbrella to Nora and raised his hands above his head. If Quinn and Nora were innocent, that left one suspect. And now he would be in the perfect position to interrogate him.
Chapter 21
The police stationwas no more inspiring from the inside of the jail cell than the outside. Arthur wondered if whoever had built the place had a personal grudge against colors other than off-white and tan, or if the effect was accidental. Perhaps if Sheriff McMartin were the culprit, he hadn’t always been a homicidal jerk. Maybe staring at the plain walls and drab architecture here had driven him to it. No wonder Salvatore’s harmonica had sounded so sad.
Arthur sighed and leaned his head against the wall. Thinking about Salvatore sent an unpleasant spike of pain through his chest, feeling as lethal as a wooden stake, and it came with an undercurrent of worry. If his many stories were true, Sal was pretty crafty in a crisis, and he’d survived far worse than relocating to another country to evade authorities. But the Sal Arthur had been married to for sixty-odd years was different from the Sal of legend. The man wouldn’t even go to the dentist, for crying out loud. As Arthur’s thoughts wound in circles and he fretted over what might become of the man he loved—and what would become of them as partners—the ache in his chest deepened and spread like roots.
When McMartin appeared in the doorway of his office, his leading-man smugness was back in the curve of his smirk and the fold of his arms across his chest.
