Feta Attraction (19 page)

“Whoa,” Inky whispered. “That was a little scary.”

I shushed him and shined the light into the interior of the shallow closet. I stepped over the pile and scanned the walls for evidence of another door or latch or false wall, but it looked ordinary enough. Should I try to restore the cubby to some kind of order? No, we'd be better off getting out of there before someone came down from the house to investigate. I did not know whether the noise would have reached that far or whether anyone would be awake to hear it, but we couldn't take the chance. We completed our circuit of the exterior walls without finding anything more and exited by the same door we had come in, switching off the light.

We paused for a moment to allow our heart rates to return to something approaching normal. I ventured a look toward the house, but didn't see anyone coming in response to the noise we'd made, so we ran toward the next building, the one containing the store I'd been to—could it be possible?—the day before yesterday. I was surprised to find the door to the shop unlocked, and we entered. The big cooler containing the dairy products hummed, and its permanently on light gave a soft blue glow by which we could see easily.

I heard Inky draw in a breath and I turned, panicked. “Oh, my God!” he whispered.

“What!” My heart pounded in my chest and a drip of sweat made its way down the center of my back.

“Look at this Amish quilt!” he gushed. “It's extraordinary! I love the bright colors. Give me the light so I can get a better look at the stitching.”

I relaxed a bit. “Inky, we
do not
have time to look at the quilts.” I could see the pout forming on his face, the snake tattoo glowing weirdly in the blue light from the cooler.

“I just wanted to look,” he said peevishly.

“Maybe I'll get you one for a wedding present.” Now,
that
was weird, planning to get a wedding present for my husband and his fiancé. I didn't even know whether they were officially engaged. Could you be engaged to one person while you were still married to someone else? But this was not the time to think about that.

Inky's face brightened. He did not grasp the subtleties of our relationship. “Oh, that would be so swell! I like this one right here.” He winked at me and pointed to the quilt done in bold shades of red, purple, and black in, if I wasn't mistaken, the Tumbling Blocks pattern. Good, he hadn't chosen the one I wanted for myself.

I checked behind the counter, just out of nosiness. Nothing. A scan of the walls revealed a doorway that presumably led out into the larger part of the building. I opened it. The lights were on and my eyes blinked rapidly in response. The windowless room appeared to be empty. I entered, Inky right behind me. I had been expecting a storage room of some kind since this was where Hank had gone to retrieve the restaurant's order the other day. I was therefore surprised to find that the room was some sort of office, containing a table with a half dozen or so chairs arranged around it. A computer sat on the table, attached to a long extension cord and a cable that was presumably an Internet connection that reached to the far wall. A pile of papers flanked the computer. I began to rifle through them. “Inky, walk around the edge of the room and look for doors, will you?”

Aha! About halfway down I found a list of names. At the top of the list—Domenic DiTomasso. Crossed off. I gulped, screwed up my courage, and read on. Number two—Spiro Nikolopatos. Both names were misspelled. I felt encouraged that Spiro's name had not been struck through, though that was of course no guarantee at all that he was still alive. Inky came bounding over to me before I got further. I replaced the papers and followed him toward the far wall. A door painted the same color as the surrounding walls opened into another small room, this one filled with boxes. It looked promising, but Spiro was not hidden here.

We gave up and headed back toward the door. I held up a hand for Inky to stop. Someone was in the other room. A chair scraped across the rough wooden floor accompanied by the unmistakable jingle and whir of a computer being booted up. I held my breath and looked back to warn Inky, but the look on his face told me that he had heard it too.

We had left the door to our little room ajar, but the person apparently hadn't noticed it yet. I looked around for another way out but saw none. Now I understood why the doors had been unlocked and the lights had been on and I wanted to kick myself for being so dumb. If this person was going to be Web surfing or playing solitaire on the computer, he (or she) could be here for hours. Much as I'd grown to like Inky, the prospect of being trapped in here with him for that long, unable to move or make any noise at all, was unbearable.

“Good boy!” A male voice cooed. “Who's Daddy's good boy?” Inky and I looked at each other and he shrugged. A bark rang out in the other room. A deep, throaty bark, the kind that can only be made by a big and deadly dog. Inky's face froze and melted into a cold pool of panic. He pointed at his chest, then pantomimed a sneeze. He was allergic to dogs.

TWENTY-ONE

It was only a minute or two before the inevitable happened. A longish snout poked into the open doorway, fangs bared and growling. The rest of the head and the shoulders appeared. It was a large German shepherd, dark and muscular, although it could have been part wolf, it was that menacing. It kept up the growl and we backed away slowly. Inky fell backward over one of the boxes and banged his head on the wall. He lay there, momentarily stunned as the dog prepared to pounce. I grabbed one of the boxes. It was heavy and I had no idea what was in it, but I heaved it at the dog and managed to hit the beast with one corner. A sharp pain raced through my side from the muscle I'd pulled, and I gasped. The box broke open and some plastic bags of dry brownish shreds fell out. The dog yelped and ran back out into the main room, passing his master who now appeared in the doorway.

Hank. Somehow I knew it would be Hank. Maybe because he was the only person I'd ever met here at Sunshine Acres. His red plaid flannel shirt was untucked over a white T-shirt, ratty at the neck where it could be seen under his ridiculously long beard. A packet of cigarettes bulged from the shirt pocket, a Native American logo showing through a hole in the threadbare fabric. Must be he bought his cigarettes at a discount from the Akwesasne Mohawk reservation to the northeast. A greasy John Deere ball cap, grubby faded blue jeans hanging loose in the butt, and scuffed work boots completed the ensemble.

“What the . . . ?” He didn't complete the sentence. Inky got up, rubbing his head, then launched himself over the boxes at Hank, catching him square in the chest with his shoulder. Hank went down, cursing. The dog came running, but Inky had enough momentum going to propel him out the door and past the dog. I snapped out of my stupor and jumped over Hank. He was lying on the floor moaning, but as I flew over him he managed to reach up and grab my leg. I went sprawling on top of him and heard the breath go out of his bony chest in a whoosh. I recovered and sprang up, none too gracefully, and slammed the door. Inky flew over to me with a chair, jamming it under the doorknob. There was a lock on the door but we didn't have a key. I felt a little twinge of guilt and hoped Hank hadn't broken a hip or anything even though he was involved in criminal activity and was probably holding Spiro here somewhere. His breath came in ragged wheezes, muffled by the door. His footsteps approached and the knob rattled as he tried it. He pounded on the heavy old wood, and I hoped it would hold. The dog barked like crazy and scratched at the door.

Inky and I ran past the table. I grabbed the sheaf of papers. Too bad the computer wasn't a laptop, or I would have taken that as well. We ran for the door. This one had a lock on the inside, which I set before we exited. Inside the store, I tested the lock; then Inky and I dragged over a crate full of maple syrup jugs and stuffed that under the doorknob for good measure.

I peeked out the exterior door. The coast seemed to be clear, so we ventured out into the cool night air. I took a moment to align the edges of the stack of papers I had lifted and stuffed them into the front of my fleece jacket. I tucked the bottom of the fleece into the front of my jeans and zipped it all the way up to secure the papers. Not too stylish, but it should keep this evidence contained until I could deliver it to the police.

We hightailed it back down the driveway, again keeping close to the trees. We jogged the quarter mile back to the side road where we'd left my car, then climbed in. My breath came hard and fast, and my side continued to ache. I vowed again to start exercising once my life returned to normal. Inky had not even broken a sweat. He was clearly in much better shape than I. He set something down with a dull thud between his feet.

“What the heck is that?”

“Pancakes for breakfast! Wanna come over in the morning?”

It was already morning. I looked down and could just make out the outline of a gallon jug of maple syrup.

“I couldn't resist,” he said with a grin.

Whatever. I'd always hated it when Cal said that to me, and here I was thinking it. Whatever.

“We'd better get out of here.” I turned the key in the ignition and the engine started up. I did a U-turn and went as fast as I dared on the gravel road back out to the two-lane highway.

“Have you got any cigarette papers?”

“Huh?”

“Have you got any cigarette papers?” he repeated.

“Uh, no, Inky. Fresh out.”

“That's a shame. 'Cause look what else I picked up while we were there!” He held up one of the plastic bags that had fallen out of the broken box. “This looks like some decent stuff.”

“Crap! Inky, is that drugs? In my car?”

“Well, yeah. I was going to test it out tonight, then offer you some with the pancakes tomorrow,” he said defensively.

Like I didn't have enough trouble already. “Just keep the bag out of sight, okay?”

“Duh! I am aware that this stuff is illegal, you know.”

I was glad to hear that, at least. We had almost reached the village limits when a blue flashing light appeared in my rearview mirror.
Damn!
I was moving along, but I didn't think I had been going more than a few miles an hour over the speed limit. I pulled over and took a deep breath to compose myself. “Inky, put that bag somewhere out of sight. Now.” He shoved it into the glove compartment. I was about to tell him to move it, but the cop was already striding toward the car. I certainly didn't want the cop to see Inky fumbling around in there. “Let me do the talking,” I hissed.

“Chill out, babe. It's just a cop.”

But it wasn't just a cop. A face appeared in my window. A large, clean-shaven face under the brim of a big gray State Trooper's hat. The same State Trooper who had visited me in my office not long ago. What were the odds?

I rolled down the window. “Well, hello! Detective . . . Hawthorne, isn't it?” I tried to sound cheerful and innocent but probably failed miserably.

“Well, well, well. Mrs. Nik,” he said.

“Just Georgie, remember?” I put on what I hoped was a winning smile.

“Well, then, Georgie.” His voice was sonorous and sexy here in the night air and Inky leaned over to get a better look at him. “Do you know why I stopped you?”

I hated that question, especially when it was delivered in that cop tone of voice. It made me want to slap him but that didn't seem wise. “No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“You've got a taillight out.”

This was news to me. I'd have to send Russ out for a bulb tomorrow. “I didn't realize it was out, but I'll get that fixed right away.” I hoped that would be enough to satisfy him. It wasn't.

“What are you doing out this time of night?”

Inky leaned over even farther, invading my personal space to a slightly annoying degree. “Hello, Officer,” he purred. “I'm Inky. From the tattoo shop in town?” I groaned inwardly. This was going to be a disaster. “My friend Georgie and I went to dinner at this fabulous Chinese restaurant up in Prescott.”

The Trooper shined his light into the car and square into Inky's face. He didn't even flinch. “Where did you cross the Canadian border?”

“The Burg, of course.”

“And this was at what time?”

My smile tightened.

“Oh, about, oh, what time was it, Georgie?”

I shrugged, unable to speak.

“Oh, right, it was about nine o'clock or so, wasn't it? Just after I closed up the shop.”

I nodded stupidly, too dumbfounded to contribute any weft to the warp in the coverlet of lies being woven here.

“Let me get this straight. You drove all the way to Ogdensburg at nine o'clock at night, then went over the bridge, cleared Customs, and went to Prescott for some Chinese food?” His skepticism was frightening. Couldn't two friends go get some Kung Pao chicken without being suspected of something? My nervousness was replaced by something approaching affront.

“You've obviously never had the food at Lucky Ling's Buffet. When the craving for that General Tso's chicken hits, you just gotta go!” Inky smiled broadly.

“You know, Georgie,” Trooper Hawthorne turned the light back onto me, but was kind enough to point it down at my boobs rather than into my eyes, a bit longer than necessary, “I'd still like to talk to you about that little matter we were discussing the other day.”

“She's available! For anything,” Inky said, and I just knew he was winking. If there hadn't been a State Trooper bulking up my driver's side window, I would have elbowed him to shut up. Hard.

“Stay here. I'll be right back.” I watched him in the side mirror without turning my head as he strode back to his unmarked cruiser.

Great, just great! “Couldn't you have come up with a better story than that?” I asked. Actually, the story about going out to dinner wasn't bad. We could have been at any restaurant and said we'd paid cash, and Detective Hawthorne might not have bothered to check it out. Crossing into Canada was another matter, though. One simple inquiry to the Border Patrol and that story was sunk.

“It was the best I could do on short notice,” he fired back at me. “And I could see you were starting to go catatonic. Somebody had to step in. And besides”—he poked at me with one of his long slender fingers—“I was hungry and thinking about Chinese food! I was at the shop all day and only had a protein bar for dinner in between tats. It's been a stressful night, you know!”

That was an understatement. It had been a stressful several days, and the lack of sleep was starting to affect me. Come to think of it, I was ready to gnaw off my own arm if I thought it would taste good. I'd have to eat something when I got back to the restaurant. If I got back to the restaurant.

I glanced in the mirror again. The detective was out of his car and moving toward us. He was illuminated from behind by the flashing of his Kojak light, and his jaw had a set to it that did not seem, um, happy.

“Inky, hold on.” I'd made a sudden, stupid decision, but I was committed now. There was no way I could allow that Trooper to search this car and find that bag of dope. No. Way. In. Hell. I jammed the accelerator to the floor and peeled out. Inky flew to one side, then righted himself. In the rearview mirror I could see the Trooper pulling out his radio and running back to his cruiser.
Good luck trying to call for backup,
I thought. Detective Hawthorne was almost certainly the only Trooper around for miles. And the Bay's police department would all be sleeping, whether an officer was on duty or not.

I hung a quick right under the arch emblazoned “Welcome to Bonaparte Bay, Gateway to the 1000 Islands” in glowing pink neon. Inky squealed with delight. The Trooper's siren wailed in the distance, getting closer. I turned down a side street, then down another, and pulled over. “Get out, and put that bag inside your jacket,” I ordered.

“Get out?”

“Just do it!” The sheaf of papers from Sunshine Acres was still in the front of my fleece and I resecured the load. “Follow me, and move!” Like he couldn't run circles around me.

We hightailed it through the night and didn't stop until we arrived, panting, at the door to Keith's boat shop. This would be the test of whether Keith was appropriate boyfriend material. I was going to have to trust him. And he was going to have to trust me.

“Keep an eye out for that cop,” I ordered again.

“You betcha!” How could he be so darn cheerful? I was now in as much trouble as I'd ever been in my life, and Inky sounded as though he'd just won a trip to Dollywood. My knuckles rapped softly on the door. I didn't hold out much hope for Keith hearing me, since the door was at the bottom of a stairwell and it was three o'clock in the morning. He'd almost certainly be asleep. I tried the knob. The door was locked, as expected.

We circled around to the dock and went inside the open boathouse. A half dozen boats in various states of repair were tied up to the cleats on the dock. If worse came to worst, we could hide out belowdecks in one of these. There was an empty slip at one end of the dock. I walked to the interior door, which I knew also opened into Keith's apartment. Locked. Damn! I knocked again, not wanting to make any superfluous noise in case the Trooper had tracked us down, but there was no answer. The intercom next to the door made a god-awful buzz as I pressed the button, reverberating around the building and no doubt out over the water. Inky was examining the racks of hand tools on the wall. He did not seem the type to enjoy woodworking, but I didn't know anything about him.