CHAPTER 10
Harrison strolled into the Sands of Thyme Bakery
a little after eight o’clock. It had been about a forty-minute
drive to Deception Bay from his apartment in Seaside, and he yawned
as he approached the counter. Two women were working the front of
the shop, one of them being a girl whose name tag read Cory; the
other being his sister, Kirsten, who placed a hand over her heart
when she saw him.
“You’re up before noon? Stop the
presses.”
“I get up before noon lots of times,”
Harrison told her as the warm scent of fresh-baked bread mingled
with the aromas of coffee and cinnamon. “It’s all related to what
time I go to bed.”
“Exactly. And when was the last time
you went to bed before midnight?” She raised a skeptical
brow.
“Two nights ago,” he said. The truth
was he was a bit of an insomniac, a condition that had worsened
since Manny’s death.
“Why?”
“I was . . . watching a DVD of a movie
I’d seen a few times and passed out before it was
over.”
“What time was that? Eleven fifty-nine
p.m.?” She smiled, a crooked smile that was an echo of Harrison’s
own.
He smiled back. “And fifty-five
seconds.”
“Can I get you something?” she asked,
flipping a towel at him.
“Coffee. Black. Lots of
caffeine.”
“What are you doing here so early,
really?” she asked, grabbing a paper cup and handing it to him as
the other girl yelled, “Low-fat vanilla latte,” toward a group of
three women who’d clustered around a newspaper strewn at one of the
glossy tables.
“Oh, that’s mine!” A woman in rain gear
scooted back her chair and approached the girl holding out a
steaming cup with a frothy top of foam.
Harrison wandered over to the
self-serve area and pulled the lever on a hot pot, shooting a
stream of steaming brown liquid into his cup. He didn’t bother with
a lid, which caused Kirsten to come around the counter and grab one
for him, pressing it into his hand. “We make it hot here,” she
said. “Don’t spill in the car.”
“I’m not leaving yet.”
“Yeah? You’re even too early for this
date with destiny, whatever it is?”
“Very funny,” he said sarcastically,
then eyed the glass display case where baskets of cinnamon rolls,
scones, bagels, and coffee cake were visible. “What about those
scones over there?” He waved a hand at the case. “Got any with
cranberries?”
“Didi’s favorite,” she said, returning
to her spot behind the counter.
Cory was helping another customer, a
girl who’d just walked in, so Harrison stepped out of the way as
she, after handing the teenager a paper coffee cup, pointed to the
hot pots he was crowding. The newcomer looked as if she’d just
rolled out of bed and was still wearing her pajamas. She stumbled
as if in a fog toward the coffee thermoses.
Kirsten picked up a cranberry scone
with tongs, put it on a plate, looked at Harrison quizzically. “You
want this heated?”
“Nah.”
She handed him the plate as the
teenager nearly staggered into him. He was grateful the girl had
the sense to put a lid on her coffee as she wasn’t exactly the
picture of grace and stability. He sat down at a table and did the
same, pressing the lid over the cup before picking up his scone and
taking a sample bite. It was good, and he wolfed down the rest,
then pressed his thumb on the crumbs, transferring them to his
mouth.
The teenager sipped her coffee for
several moments, and it was almost like Harrison could watch the
caffeine do its job. Brighter-eyed, she headed outside to a newer
model BMW. The vanity plate read BRITT88.
He watched her wheel out of the lot and
head north with a screech of tires. Idly he wondered if he’d just
met Britt Berman and she was heading back toward West Coast High.
There were still a few days of school left before summer
break.
Glancing over, he saw Kirsten watching
him closely. “She’s a high school student,” she hissed in a stage
whisper.
“I’m not looking for a date,” Harrison
assured her flatly. “I just thought she seemed familiar, but the
girl I’m thinking of lives in Seaside, not Deception
Bay.”
“I think her father lives around here.
She’s come in with him a few times, called him Dad. She pulls in
from the south, picks up coffee, then drives north. Maybe she goes
to her mother’s before school.”
“It’s Saturday,” the other girl at the
counter said as she grabbed some ceramic cups and squeezed past
Kirsten to the coffeemaker.
“Maybe she’s just heading home,”
Harrison mused. “She always wear her pajamas?”
“Pretty much,” Kirsten
said.
“You know her name?”
Kirsten shook her head. “Her license
plate says Britt.”
Harrison nodded. A couple came through
the door at that moment, and he subsided into silence. The girl’s
appearance had reminded him of the other story he was working on,
which he sensed was on the verge of taking a turn. He needed to
balance that story with Justice Turnbull’s escape. It was an
embarrassment of riches when just a few weeks ago he’d been working
on nothing more exciting than the coming Fourth of July
parade.
Getting to his feet, he walked to the
counter so he wouldn’t have to shout. “You know where the lodge for
the cult is?” he asked Kirsten.
Before she could answer, Cory, who’d
filled two ceramic mugs for the people who’d just entered and taken
them to a table, walked around the back of the counter and said,
“The Colony? It’s just up Highway 101. Looks over toward the ocean.
Sometimes it’s kind of hard to see if your eyes are on the road
’cause of all the bushes and stuff on either side of it. But it’s
amazing.”
“Just up the highway?” Harrison jerked
a finger toward the north.
“Uh-huh. But you can’t go see ’em, or
anything, you know. They don’t come out anymore.”
“Anymore,” Harrison
repeated.
“Well, I guess they used to. But
they’re like weird, you know.”
Kirsten said, “How do they get their
groceries?”
Another man entered and asked for a
sixteen-ounce cup. Cory handed it to him, popped open the cash
drawer, dropped in his money, and made change. She then slammed the
register drawer shut with her abdomen. The man slid a look between
Harrison and Kirsten as he stuffed the bills in his wallet and
headed for the coffee thermoses.
“I don’t know.” Cory shrugged.
“Somebody gets it for ’em, I guess.”
Finishing up his coffee, Harrison
tossed the cup in the trash, checked his cell phone for the time,
then took a step toward the door.
“I would’ve given you a regular mug if
I’d known you were going to stick around,” Kirsten
said.
“I didn’t know it myself.”
“Are you taking Chico out anytime
soon?” Kirsten called after him.
“God, I hope not. I’ll let you
know.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
Outside he inhaled a lungful of briny air thick with moisture as he
unlocked the Impala’s doors with a remote button. He had to click
it several times and recognized he needed new batteries. Sliding
into the driver’s side, he fired up the engine. Morning light was
dimming with the arrival of a bank of gray clouds. More typical
June weather at the coast. Looked like they might descend into a
blanket of fog. Peachy.
As he was pulling out of the lot, he
saw a middle-aged couple climbing from their pickup truck, both
wearing T-shirts that said CLEAN UP THE
BEACH! He remembered that today was the annual event whereby
people from all over the state combed the beaches for
trash.
A noble pursuit, but he had other plans
on this day. It was still early, but what the hell. He wanted to
get a look at the cult’s lodge up close and personal.
As he drove northward, he thought about
the thieving teens, the Deadly Sinners. He suspected it would be
afternoon before they started gathering; that was like the teen
credo. But he bet his bottom dollar they would be gathering. Their
robberies had all been on weekend nights, thus far. Saturdays,
mostly. It just felt like tonight would be a great night for
them.
Maybe he would forget Chico today and
instead go for some other look. Maybe actually follow one of them
home. Surveillance was where he was on that story. Follow them
around. See who their friends were. Catch them in the act of their
next bad behavior. Tonight, maybe . . .
But first.
He missed the turnoff to the lodge the
first time he went by. Drove right past it, which was easy to do as
it wasn’t much of a road and what there was of it was disguised
with laurel and Scotch broom and thick grasses waving in a stiff,
brisk breeze. The lodge itself was down a side road that was
basically two water-filled ruts that led to a wrought-iron gate and
the imposing building beyond, a two-story structure of wood
shingles and rock and a flagstone walk leading to the front
door.
There was a car parked outside the
gate. Theirs? he wondered, pulling up next
to it. A green Outback with mud splashed up its sides from the rear
tires. Huh. Just didn’t seem to jibe with the whole isolated cult
thing, but then, who knew?
He was considering getting out of his
car when two women stepped outside into the morning light; he could
see them through the right side window of his Impala. They were
saying good-bye to each other. An older woman and a younger one. It
was a tad awkward, like they didn’t know whether to hug or shake
hands or just get the hell out.
They both noticed his car at the same
time and froze as if touched by a magic wand.
Harrison whispered on a surprised
breath, “Laura friggin’ Adderley.”
What the hell was she doing here? he
thought the half second before her resemblance to the older woman
slammed into his brain like a meteor.
Mother and
daughter? Apart from hair color, they bore a strong
resemblance.
They finally became animated again,
whispering to each other urgently. Then Laura seemed to draw a deep
breath and set her jaw. Her eyes narrowed upon him as she started
marching across the flagstones to the gate. The older woman
followed, and Harrison saw the heavy keys in her hands. She opened
the gate for Laura, then locked it distinctly behind her as she
threw Harrison a dark glance that told him in no uncertain terms
that he wasn’t welcome.
No surprise there.
Laura walked straight for the driver’s
side of the Outback, and Harrison, whose engine was still running,
pushed the button that lowered his passenger side window, where her
lower back was perfectly framed as she hit a button on her remote
door lock.
“So . . . you’re a cult member,” he
said loud enough to be heard over the distant roar of the surf and
a few birds calling, unseen in the thick forest.
She stiffened as if hit with a hot
prod. After a brief moment, she turned and leaned into the open
passenger window. He was surprised at how blue her eyes were, how
mesmerized he was by the darker striations fanning from the pupil,
how smooth the skin was on her cheeks.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded
without the barest trace of a smile.
He asked, “Why do you dye your
hair?”
Neither of them answered the
other.
Laura seemed to think that over hard;
then she abruptly turned away.
“You want me to write up something
about you being a cult member? Or, maybe we could catch breakfast
together and you could tell me all about it?”
“I’m leaving.” She opened her car
door.
“How about I follow you?”
“How about I call the police?” she
snapped angrily.
“Somehow I don’t think that’d be your
first move,” he said, watching her. She was beautiful in her own
way, near-perfect features with a little bit of mystery surrounding
her. And married to that prick Adderley, he
reminded himself. He knew now they weren’t brother and sister.
“You’re related to them, aren’t you?” Harrison asked, hooking his
thumb toward the gate and lodge beyond. “Is that why you dye your
hair? To hide your resemblance to them?”
“I don’t owe you an
explanation.”
“Are they afraid Justice is coming back
for them? What about you? Are you afraid?”
She was slamming into her car, so
Harrison climbed quickly out of the Impala and skirted her front
bumper to end up at her driver’s window. She gazed at him stiffly
through the glass.
“Let me buy you breakfast,” he
suggested. “I’d like to talk to you. Off the record, of
course.”
She rolled down her window reluctantly.
“Of course,” she mocked, distrust twisting her features.
“For the record, I don’t believe anything’s
really off the record.”
He couldn’t help but smile. So she did
have a sense of humor.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she
said.
“Okay, okay. So if you want it that
way, it will be. I promise. But I am going to write an article
about the cult, with or without your help.”
“The ‘cult,’” she repeated, with a
shake of her head. “Great. That would be without my help,” she
assured him. She jabbed her key into the ignition and, before she
twisted her wrist, glared up at him. “And they’re not a cult.
They’re a family.”
“Your family.”
She said something unintelligible under
her breath. “What ‘they’ are is people who just want to be left
alone,” she said, picking her words carefully.
Time to get to the point. “Justice
Turnbull isn’t going to leave them alone. What does he want with
them? Why are they his targets?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” But
she visibly paled.
“No, I’m not. He went after them
before. One was dead from over twenty years ago, and he went after
another one. And then there was that reporter woman. And his mother
. . . the one in the rest home. And you’re one of them.” He
motioned again toward the lodge. “So, he’s related to you and bound
to be a threat?”
She hesitated half a second, then shook
her head. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re all like this! Digging
for a story. Avidly searching for that angle, that spin, that
something that will make your story stand
out! You don’t give a damn about anything but making money. You’re
as bad as the paparazzi. Just chasing people down, no matter what
the cost!”
“What is that cost?” he
asked.
“Everything! You said it yourself. He’s
after us. He wants to kill us, Mr. Frost.” Whatever cool demeanor
she had left cracked completely, and he saw a gamut of emotions
skitter across her features. Fear. Rage. Uncertainty.
For a few seconds, they stared at each
other, and the darkness of the surrounding forest seemed like a
shroud. He found himself wanting to reach in and comfort her. Rub
her back. Stroke her hair. Touch her. It was way out of line, and
she probably would scream assault if he even tried.
“I’ve said enough.” She twisted on the
ignition and the car sparked to life.
“One breakfast, and I’ll leave you
alone,” he promised and wondered why it mattered so much that he
talk with her. “Pick the place.”
She closed her eyes. He had the
impression she wanted to bang her forehead on the steering wheel in
frustration or do anything to make him leave her alone. “Okay. The
Sands of Thyme Bakery.”
“Not that place.”
Opening her eyes, she frowned at him.
“You just said—”
“I know. My sister works there. You
don’t want to go there with me. How about Davy Jones’s
Locker?”
“The bar?” she asked with
disdain.
“They also serve breakfast. It’s pretty
good.”
“It’s a dive bar,” she reiterated and
looked at him as if he’d lost his mind or never had one to begin
with.
“Hey . . .” He shrugged his shoulders
and spread his hands. He was trying hard to be his most
charming.
Her fingers squeezed the steering
wheel. “I . . . can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m very careful not to do
crazy things.”
“Who says this is crazy? It’s not
crazy.”
“Your definition of crazy is clearly
different than mine.” She gave him a sideways look as she slid her
car into gear and said reluctantly, “But if you promise this is our
one and only meeting, that I’m off the record, and that after this
you’ll leave me and my family alone forever, I’ll do
it.”
“Deal. Except I reserve the right to
change your mind.” He grinned.
“You won’t.”
“Maybe if you get to know me you’ll
like me. I’m not all bad. Yeah, I’m after a story, but I’m not
Pauline Kirby. I want facts. The real deal.”
“You’re still a reporter.”
“I’m a truth seeker, Mrs. Adderley.
That’s all.”
He didn’t quite understand what he’d
said that caused her face to lose all color. “What’s wrong?” he
asked quickly.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m—” She
hesitated on a half laugh. “I’m not . . . It’s Ms. Adderley,
actually. I’m not married.”
“Not married. As in not married to Dr.
Byron Adderley?”
“That’s correct.”
He grinned. “Well, that’s a
plus.”
“I’ll see you at Davy Jones’s, Mr.
Frost,” she said, and he noticed her hands were trembling over her
steering wheel. “One breakfast. And that’s all.”
“Whatever you want,” he assured
her.
“Off the record.”
“They have really good huevos rancheros
there.”
“Off the record,” she
insisted.
“Off the record,” he agreed, stepping
away from her car as she backed around and turned the Outback’s
nose toward the main road. “Unless you change your mind, of course
. . .”