With an exasperated sigh, I stared at 4-down. “Wolf-like” wasn’tTravis, but without a working phone, I couldn’t exactly google it.
“Do you happen to have any more jars of that special cream?” Sister Elenor asked, interrupting my dark thoughts and setting down a freshly baked cookie. I couldn’t remember ordering another one, but I wasn’t about to complain.
Yesterday, I’d noticed that she’d burned her hand pretty severely while making a batch of peanut butter cookies, so I’d given her a small jar.
“I’m afraid that was my only one,” I told her. “You need more? Do you think it’s helping?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.” She showed me her hands. The burns were completely gone.
A warm tingle of pride rushed through me. I loved that one of my concoctions had worked so well.
“One of the ladies in my book club said it helped with their arthritis,” she continued. “And another said it helped with her asthma. They each want their own jar of what they’re callingDaphne’s Miracle Cream. One of the gents even said it helped with his chafing.” She put a hand to her mouth as if she were telling me a secret. “I didn’t ask what was being chafed, however.”
Arthritis, asthma, chafing? If I could speak to each of them individually, maybe I’d be able to tailor something better. But if my generic cream was doing the trick, that was even better. I told her I’d be happy to make more and asked where I could purchase supplies.
She gave me the names of a few farmers’ market vendors who might be able to help. Unfortunately, the market was closed today, so I’d have to go another time.
At sundown, I successfully found the entrance to Wickedville—yay me—but the city was doing some road construction and it was completely blocked off.
“Sorry, you’ll have to go around to the other entrance,” one of the workers said as a dump truck with gravel rumbled by.
This was the only way I knew how to get here. Given what had happened the other day when I got lost, I didn’t think I’d be able to find it.
I peered through the wrought-iron gate. “Can’t I just go in through there?”
“Not until after midnight.” Then the guy waved me off and barked some orders to his coworkers.
Dang it. I didn’t want to come back that late.
With a heavy sigh, I shifted the beach bag to my other shoulder, trudged back to my hotel, and vowed to return tomorrow.
After all, I had another free day. I could still hear Mia squealing when she opened up that date card.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Travis
After shooting someSecret Shadowspromo up in Vancouver yesterday, I’d been hit with a huge bombshell in my attorney’s office. Not only had she found a loophole in the will, allowing me to be named Alpha at the White Wolf Moon with or without being mated, but she said there was a high-probability one of the contestants was a mole, put in place by a rival clan to undermine my family’s stake on the island.
“There are several wolf shifters,” I’d told her, thinking of Sarah and Alice. “But they’re from mainland packs, with no claim to the island.”
My attorney shook her head thoughtfully as only a psychic could. “To be honest, it could be any of them. A vampire, for instance, could just as easily be swayed by money as anyone else.”
Money.
The Crutchfields had to be behind it. Their pack ran a seedy casino in Wickedville and had always wanted to expand theirterritory. A schism in the Darkaway Island pack could do just that.
When I’d shared this news with Jada and told her we could cancel the contest, that it wasn’t necessary anymore, she insisted we continue. She’d had some real interest from the networks and didn’t want to stop now. I figured she’d refuse, but it was worth a try.
I didn’t know who the mole was, but I was hellbent on finding out. If the Crutchfields wanted to play games, thengame on.
Now, as I banked the aircraft around the south side of the island, Mia sat in the passenger seat and yammered on about aSecret Shadowsplot line. I turned down the volume of my headphones.
If only Daphne were with me on this one-on-one. Her excitement would be real. Not some fake bullshit. But I couldn’t risk letting her fly; piercing the island’s veil of charm might cause irreparable harm to her memories of the island. And of me.
“Hey,” Mia shouted, waving her hands to get my attention, and I surreptitiously turned the volume of my headphones back up.
“That looks like a volcano,” she said, pointing inland to Mystic Mountain.
