The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Read online

  “I didn’t know Australia was big in the diamond business,” I said.

  “Yeah, neither did I,” said Vee.

  In fact, I was pretty sure Australia had no diamonds. Period.

  “Why are they living in Maine?” I asked. “Why not Africa?”

  Elliot studied his menu more intensely. “What are you both having? I’m thinking the steak fajitas look good.”

  “If Jules’s parents are in the diamond business, I bet they know a lot about choosing the perfect engagement ring,” Vee said. “I’ve always wanted an emerald-cut solitaire.”

  I kicked Vee under the table. She jabbed me with her fork.

  “Oww!” I said.

  Our waitress paused at the end of the table long enough to ask, “Anything to drink?”

  Elliot looked over the top of his menu, first at me, then at Vee.

  “Diet Coke,” Vee said.

  “Water with lime wedges, please,” I said.

  The waitress returned amazingly quickly with our drinks. Her return was my cue to leave the table and initiate step one of the Plan, and Vee reminded me with a second under-the-table prod from her fork.

  “Vee,” I said through my teeth, “would you like to accompany me to the ladies’ room?” I suddenly didn’t want to go through with the Plan. I didn’t want to leave Vee alone with Elliot. What I did want was to drag her out, tell her about the murder investigation, then find some way to make both Elliot and Jules disappear from our lives.

  “Why don’t you go alone?” said Vee. “I think that would be a better plan.” She jerked her head at the bar and mouthed Go, while making discreet shooing motions below the table.

  “I was planning on going alone, but I’d really like you to join me.”

  “What is it with girls?” Elliot said, splitting a smile between us. “I swear, I’ve never known a girl who could go to the bathroom alone.” He leaned forward and grinned conspiratorially. “Let me in on the secret. Seriously. I’ll pay you five bucks each.” He reached for his back pocket. “Ten, if I can come along and see what the big deal is.”

  Vee flashed a grin. “Pervert. Don’t forget these,” she told me, stuffing the 7-Eleven sacks into my arms.

  Elliot’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Trash,” Vee explained to him with a touch of snark. “Our garbage can is full. My mom asked if I could throw these away since I was going out.”

  Elliot didn’t look like he believed her, and Vee didn’t look like she cared. I got up, my arms loaded with costume gear, and swallowed my burning frustration.

  Weaving through the tables, I took the hall leading back to the restrooms. The hall was painted terra-cotta and was decorated with maracas, straw hats, and wooden dolls. It was hotter back here, and I wiped my forehead. The Plan now was to get this over with as quickly as possible. As soon as I was back at the table, I’d formulate an excuse about needing to leave, and haul Vee out. With or without her consent.

  After peeking below the three stalls in the ladies’ room and confirming I was alone, I locked the main door and dumped the contents of the 7-Eleven sacks onto the counter. One platinum blond wig, one purple push-up bra, one black tube top, one sequined miniskirt, hot pink fishnet tights, and one pair of size eight and a half sharkskin stiletto heels.

  I stuffed the bra, the tube top and the tights back inside the sacks. After sloughing off my jeans, I pulled on the miniskirt. I tucked my hair under the wig and applied the lipstick. I topped it off with a generous coat of high-shine lip gloss.

  “You can do this,” I told my reflection, snapping the cap back on the gloss and blotting my lips together. “You can pull a Marcie Millar. Seduce men for secrets. How hard can it be?”

  I kicked off my driving mocs, stuffed them into a sack along with my jeans, then pushed the sack under the counter, out of sight. “Besides,” I continued, “there’s nothing wrong with sacrificing a little pride for the sake of intelligence. If you want to approach this with a morbid outlook, you could even say if you don’t get answers, you could wind up dead. Because like it or not, someone out there means you harm.”

  I dangled the sharkskin heels in my line of vision. They weren’t the ugliest things I’d ever seen. In fact, they could be considered sexy. Jaws meets Coldwater, Maine. I strapped myself into them and practiced walking across the bathroom several times.

  Two minutes later I eased myself on top of a bar stool at the bar.

  The bartender eyed me. “Sixteen?” he guessed. “Seventeen?”

  He looked about ten years older than me and had receding brown hair that he wore shaved close. A silver hoop hung from his right earlobe. White T-shirt and Levi’s. Not bad looking . . . not great, either.

  “I’m not an underage drinker,” I called loudly above the music and surrounding conversation. “I’m waiting for a friend. I’ve got a great view of the doors here.” I retrieved the list of questions from my handbag and covertly positioned the paper under a glass salt shaker.

  “What’s that?” the bartender asked, wiping his hands on a towel and nodding at the list.

  I slid the list farther under the salt shaker. “Nothing,” I said, all innocence.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I decided to be loose with the truth. “It’s a . . . shopping list. I have to pick up some groceries for my mom on the way home.” What happened to flirting? I asked myself. What happened to Marcie Millar?

  He gave me a scrutinizing look that I decided wasn’t all negative. “After working this job for five years, I’m pretty good at spotting liars.”

  “I’m not a liar,” I said. “Maybe I was lying a moment ago, but it was just one lie. One little lie doesn’t make a liar.”

  “You look like a reporter,” he said.

  “I work for my high school’s eZine.” I wanted to shake myself. Reporters didn’t instill trust in people. People were generally suspicious of reporters. “But I’m not working tonight,” I amended quickly. “Strictly pleasure tonight. No business. No underlying agendas. None whatsoever.”

  After a count of silence I decided the best move was to plow ahead. I cleared my throat and said, “Is the Borderline a popular place of employment for high school students?”

  “We get a lot of those, yeah. Hostesses and busboys and the like.”

  “Really?” I said, feigning surprise. “Maybe I know some of them. Try me.”

  The bartender angled his eyes toward the ceiling and scratched the stubble on his chin. His blank stare wasn’t inspiring my confidence. Not to mention that I didn’t have a lot of time. Elliot could be slipping lethal drugs into Vee’s Diet Coke.

  “How about Patch Cipriano?” I asked. “Does he work here?”

  “Patch? Yeah. He works here. A couple nights, and weekends.”

  “Was he working Sunday night?” I tried not to sound too curious. But I needed to know if it was possible for Patch to have been at the pier. He said he had a party on the coast, but maybe his plans had changed. If someone verified that he was at work Sunday evening, I could rule out his involvement in the attack on Vee.

  “Sunday?” More scratching. “The nights blur together. Try the hostesses. One of them will remember. They all giggle and go a little screwy when he’s around.” He smiled as if I might somehow sympathize with them.

  I said, “You wouldn’t happen to have access to his job application?” Including his home address.

  “That would be a no.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “do you know if it’s possible to get hired here if you have a felony on your record?”

  “A felony?” He gave a bark of laughter. “You kidding me?”

  “Okay, maybe not a felony, but how about a misdemeanor?”

  He spread his palms on the counter and leaned close. “No.” His tone had shifted from humoring to insulted.

  “That’s good. That’s really good to know.” I repositioned myself on the bar stool, and felt the skin on my thighs peel away from the vinyl. I was sweating. If rule
number one of flirting was no lists, I was fairly certain rule number two was no sweating.

  I consulted my list.

  “Do you know if Patch has ever had any restraining orders? Does he have a history of stalking?” I suspected the bartender was getting a bad vibe from me, and I decided to throw all my questions out in a last-ditch effort before he sent me away from the bar—or worse, had me evicted from the restaurant for harassment and suspicious behavior. “Does he have a girlfriend?” I blurted.

  “Go ask him,” he said.

  I blinked. “He’s not working tonight.”

  At the bartender’s grin, my stomach seemed to unravel.

  “He’s not working tonight . . . is he?” I asked, my voice inching up an octave. “He’s supposed to have Tuesdays off!”

  “Usually, yeah. But he’s covering for Benji. Benji went to the hospital. Ruptured appendix.”

  “You mean Patch is here? Right now?” I glanced over my shoulder, brushing the wig to cover my profile while I scanned the dining area for him.

  “He walked back to the kitchen a couple minutes ago.”

  I was already disengaging myself from the bar stool. “I think I left my car running. But it was great talking to you!” I hurried as quickly as I could to the restrooms.

  Inside the ladies’ room I locked the door behind me, drew a few breaths with my back pressed to the door, then went to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Patch was going to find out I’d spied on him. My memorable performance guaranteed that. On the surface, this was a bad thing because it was, well, humiliating. But when I thought about it, I had to face the fact that Patch was very secretive. Secretive people didn’t like their lives pried into. How would he react when he learned I was holding him under a magnifying glass?

  And now I wondered why I’d come here at all, since deep inside, I didn’t believe Patch was the guy behind the ski mask. Maybe he had dark, disturbing secrets, but running around in a ski mask wasn’t one of them.

  I turned off the tap, and when I looked up, Patch’s face was reflected in the mirror. I shrieked and swung around.

  He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t look particularly amused.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped.

  “I work here.”

  “I mean here. Can’t you read? The sign on the door—”

  “I’m starting to think you’re following me. Every time I turn around, there you are.”

  “I wanted to take Vee out,” I explained. “She’s been in the hospital.” I sounded defensive. I was certain that only made me look more guilty. “I never dreamed I’d run into you. It’s supposed to be your night off. And what are you talking about? Every time I turn around, there you are.”

  Patch’s eyes were sharp, intimidating, extracting. They calculated my every word, my every movement.

  “Want to explain the tacky hair?” he said.

  I yanked off the wig and tossed it on the counter. “Want to explain where you’ve been? You missed the last two days of school.”

  I was almost certain Patch wouldn’t reveal his whereabouts, but he said, “Playing paintball. What were you doing at the bar?”

  “Talking with the bartender. Is that a crime?” Balancing one hand against the counter, I raised my foot to unbuckle a sharkskin heel. I bent over slightly, and as I did, the interrogation list fluttered out of my neckline and onto the floor.

  I went down on my knees for it, but Patch was faster. He held it over his head while I jumped for it.

  “Give it back!” I said.

  “ ‘Does Patch have a restraining order against him?’“ he read. “ ‘Is Patch a felon?’”

  “Give—me—that!” I hissed furiously.

  Patch gave a soft laugh, and I knew he’d seen the next question. “ ‘Does Patch have a girlfriend?’ “

  Patch put the paper in his back pocket. I was sorely tempted to go after it, despite its location.

  He leaned back against the counter and leveled our eyes. “If you’re going to dig around for information, I’d prefer that you ask me.”

  “Those questions”—I waved where he’d hidden them—“were a joke. Vee wrote them,” I added in a flash of inspiration. “It’s all her fault.”

  “I know your handwriting, Nora.”

  “Well, okay, fine,” I began, hunting for a smart reply, but I took too long and lost my chance.

  “No restraining orders,” he said. “No felonies.”

  I tilted my chin up. “Girlfriend?” I told myself I didn’t care how he answered. Either way was fine with me.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You tried to kiss me,” I reminded him. “You made it my business.”

  The ghost of a pirate smile lurked at his mouth. I got the impression he was recalling every last detail of that near kiss, including my sigh-slash-moan.

  “Ex-girlfriend,” he said after a moment.

  My stomach dropped as a sudden thought popped into my mind. What if the girl from Delphic and Victoria’s Secret was Patch’s ex? What if she saw me talking to Patch at the arcade and— mistakenly—assumed there was a lot more to our relationship? If she was still attracted to Patch, it made sense that she might be jealous enough to follow me around. A few puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place. . . .

  And then Patch said, “But she’s not around.”

  “What do you mean she’s not around?”

  “She’s gone. She’s never coming back.”

  “You mean . . . she’s dead?” I asked.

  Patch didn’t deny it.

  My stomach suddenly felt heavy and twisted. I hadn’t expected this. Patch had a girlfriend, and now she was dead.

  The door to the ladies’ room rattled as someone tried to enter. I’d forgotten I’d locked it. Which made me wonder how Patch got in. Either he had a key, or there was another explanation. An explanation I probably didn’t want to think about, such as gliding under the door like air. Like smoke.

  “I need to get back to work,” Patch said. He gave me a once-over that lingered a bit below the hips. “Killer skirt. Deadly legs.”

  Before I’d formed a single coherent thought, he was through the door.

  The older woman waiting for admittance looked at me, then over her shoulder at Patch, who was vanishing down the hall. “Honey,” she told me, “he looks slippery as soap.”

  “Good description,” I mumbled.

  She fluffed her short, corkscrew gray hair. “A girl could lather up in soap like that.”

  After I changed back into my clothes, I returned to the booth and slid in beside Vee. Elliot checked his watch and lifted his eyebrows at me.

  “Sorry I was gone so long,” I said. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nope,” said Vee. “Same old, same old.” She bumped my knee, and the question was implied. Well?

  Before I could return the bump, Elliot said, “You missed the waitress. I ordered you a red burrito.” A creepy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  I saw my chance.

  “Actually, I’m not sure I’m up to eating.” I managed a nauseated face that wasn’t altogether contrived. “I think I caught what Jules has.”

  “Oh, man,” Vee said. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll hunt down our waitress and get her to box the food,” Vee suggested, digging in her purse for keys.

  “What about me?” said Elliot, sounding only half joking.

  “Rain check?” Vee said.

  Bingo, I thought.

  CHAPTER

  14

  I GOT BACK TO THE FARMHOUSE SHORTLY BEFORE EIGHT. I turned my key in the lock, grabbed the doorknob, and shoved my hip against the door. I’d called my mom a few hours before dinner; she was at the office, tying up a few loose ends, not sure when she’d be home, and I expected to find the house quiet, dark, and cold.

  On the third shove, the door gave way, and I hurled my handbag into the darkness, then wrestled with the key still
jammed in the lock. Ever since the night Patch came over, the lock had developed a greedy disposition. I wondered if Dorothea had noticed it earlier in the day.

  “Give—me—the—dumb—key,” I said, jiggling it free.

  The grandfather clock in the hall ticked on the hour, and eight loud dongs reverberated through the silence. I was walking into the living room to start a fire in the wood-burning stove when there was the rustle of fabric and a low creak from across the room.

  I screamed.

  “Nora!” my mom said, throwing off a blanket and scrambling into a sitting position on the sofa. “What in the world’s the matter?”

  I had one hand splayed across my heart and the other flattened against the wall, supporting me. “You scared me!”

  “I fell asleep. If I’d heard you come in, I would have said something.” She pushed her hair off her face and blinked owlishly. “What time is it?”

  I collapsed into the nearest armchair and tried to recover my normal heart rate. My imagination had conjured up a pair of ruthless eyes behind a ski mask. Now that I was positive he wasn’t a figment of my imagination, I had an overwhelming desire to tell my mom everything, from the way he’d jumped on the Neon to his role as Vee’s attacker. He was stalking me, and he was violent. We’d get new locks on the doors. And it seemed logical that the police would get involved. I’d feel much safer at night with an officer parked on the curb.

  “I was going to wait to bring this up,” my mom said, interrupting my thought process, “but I’m not sure the perfect moment is ever going to present itself.”

  I frowned. “What’s going on?”

  She gave a long, troubled sigh. “I’m thinking about putting the farmhouse up for sale.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We’ve been struggling for a year, and I’m not pulling in as much as I’d hoped. I’ve considered taking a second job, but honestly, I’m not sure there are enough hours in the day.” She laughed without any trace of humor. “Dorothea’s wages are modest, but it’s extra money we don’t have. The only other thing I can think of is moving into a smaller house. Or an apartment.”

  “But this is our house.” All my memories were here. The memory of my dad was here. I couldn’t believe she didn’t feel the same way. I would do whatever it took to stay.