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“Thanks for my phone. And for racing to the rescue.” She hugged my neck, then headed toward the Jeep, and Zig fell right into step behind her.
So did I. “Listen, um, stay away from the club, okay? There was an incident. Christy got hurt and—” Misty spun around, wide-eyed, and I held up both hands. “She’s okay.”
“What happened?”
“Cover wasn’t open all the way. She hit her head,” I explained. “Detective Scott was so pissed she took the control box right off the wall so it couldn’t happen again, pending investigation into the incident.”
“Detective Scott?” she asked.
“Yeah. She’s been really helpful.”
“Bitch wouldn’t help us,” Zig muttered.
Mason shrugged. “Cops don’t think very highly of crime podcasters.”
“Because we solve crimes they couldn’t?” Misty asked, feisty as I’d ever seen her.
Maybe she’s found her calling, Inner Bitch suggested.
“That wasn’t a shot,” Mason said. “And the reason is, they tend to rile up the public. That can make our job harder.”
“Thanks for the support, Uncle Mace,” she snapped.
“You’re welcome. I forwarded you the police reports and the autopsy notes.”
She softened her tone considerably. “Thanks.”
Then she went the rest of the way to the car and got behind the wheel. Zig hurried around the passenger side to get in. Misty leaned out her door and called, “See you at breakfast.” She slammed the door and pulled away, heading south.
I sent Mason a palms-up shrug. “What the hell, with that one?”
“Let’s get to the crime scene before all the good evidence is gone.” He slung his arm around my shoulders, and we walked back to the Solterra.
* * *
RACHEL
The sky was turning from deep blue-black to gray where it showed through the trees. The smell of wet, charred wood hung like a soggy blanket in the pre-dawn air, and we stood breathing it, in front of the smoldering Quaid cabin. Its log walls were intact, on the outside, at least. There was a gaping hole in the roof and a few broken windows. From what I could see through those windows, the inside had burned black.
“I can’t figure how he managed to get out,” Detective Jen Scott said. “Can’t ask him. Still hasn’t regained consciousness.”
I nodded, and wondered what Paul Quaid would have to say when he did wake up. If he did. I was distracted, because I could feel my wayward niece all over this place. Misty had been there. “Have you seen the autopsy report?” I asked Jen.
“I have it,” she said. “Haven’t had a minute to read it. Why? Have you?”
Mason and I nodded in unison. I squeezed his hand, passing the baton. He said, “Paul Quaid’s dog tag was in the back of her throat.”
She went very still, blinked twice, then said, “That’s it then. I’ve got him. Finally.”
“It was chlorinated water in her lungs,” Mason went on.
“She drowned in a pool,” Jen whispered. Then, “She drowned in that pool. That’s it. I’ll get a court order to shut the place down. It’s a crime scene.”
“A ten-year-old crime scene,” Mason said. “Is a judge apt to think there’s anything there to find?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not. But given your niece’s accident, and the similarity of her head injury to Eva’s…” She trailed off and shook her head slowly. “We have to make sure it’s safe for the mermaids before we let them back in.”
There were still too many pieces that didn’t fit in my mind, and therefore I could be pretty certain, in Mason’s mind as well. If Paul had killed Eva, who’d tried to kill Paul?
