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His beard was growing in. He scratched at it endlessly, but it looked damn good. Especially with the few grays sprinkled throughout. He kept it closely trimmed to keep with his biz aesthetic, but deep down? Yeah, Paz had a wild side. I’d seen it. I’dbenefitedfrom it. And now it was difficult to look at him and see the stuffy suit he pretended to be.
He was layered and complex, and he didn’t let many people in. But I had been elbowing my way past his defenses for weeks. I wanted all the information all the time. It was a side effect of the job. But the end result of all my digging was a jumble of frustration and admiration wound together with a healthy dose of lust.
But I was here to work. A fact I had to continually remind myself of.
This was likely the only time the entire Gagnon Lumber team would be in one place. Guys who worked seasonally and guys who lived in other parts of the state were all here to support their boss. And I’d never have another crack at them.
So I casually worked my way through this wedding, utilizing Ellen and a few others I’d befriended over the last few weeks to make introductions. I matched faces to names and read body language while holding innocent conversation. The only thing that would make this night better was access to my laptop so I could update my notes and spreadsheets, but that would be beyond strange at a backyard wedding. So instead, I was filing everything away and discreetly typing notes into my phone.
I approached a group of old-timers who were nursing beers and trading stories by the fire. I had been dancing around Richard Bernard all night. From what I’d gleaned from his interactions, he seemed to keep to himself.
“Richard, right?” I asked, like I didn’t know that he was the operations director who had also been Frank Gagnon’s best friend and had been employed by Gagnon Lumber longer than any other living employee.
He was a tall, thin man with military-short silver hair and a permanent scowl.
I held out my hand.
“Yes,” he said, scrutinizing me behind a pair of round glasses and giving me a wary smile. “That’s me.”
“I’ve only been here for a few weeks. I’m still trying to learn names.”
Little did he know I was privy to his social security number, his mother’s maiden name, and how much he still owed on the blue Tacoma parked down the hill. “I’m Parker. Pascal’s girlfriend.”
The rest of the men around the fire introduced themselves, and I made small talk, asking dumb questions about their jobs and pretending to be fascinated.
“Cutting down trees for a living must seem boring to someone like you,” Richard said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Word around town is that you’re a famous author.”
I shrugged. “Hardly famous.”
“But still. Murder mysteries? How does a pretty little thing like you come up with this stuff?”
I blinked back the desire to tell him to take his condescension and shove it up his ancient asshole. I tapped my temple. “Got a lot of ideas up here.” I flashed him a megawatt smile. “And looks can be deceiving.”
He nodded at me, sipping his beer.
The other guys were easy to chat with. Nate, who was a recovering alcoholic with a baby on the way, had been hired by Frank when no one else would give him a chance. He was loyal and, according to Paz, extremely hardworking. He likely wasn’t bright enough to evade the authorities, and he didn’t have any debts, shady relatives, or other possible motive. Plus, he’d been living in New Hampshire at the time of the accident.
Al was nearing retirement, and he was a deacon at the church in town. Although religious types usually raised my suspicions, he was clean as a whistle. His wife could get a bit rowdy at bingo, but that was really it. After years in the woods, he’d moved to a desk job at headquarters a few years back.
And that left Richard.
Longtime employee, trusted adviser, godfather to Pascal.
Had no wife, no kids, no life beyond the business.
Owned a modest cottage in town, spent his downtime during the warmer months kayaking, and spent the majority of every winter up at logging camp, where he ran the show, nurtured the next generation of loggers, and oversaw operations.
“Timber companies seem like they’re usually family owned, huh?”
“Oh yes,” Al said. “My father was a logger. Learned everything from him. My brother and I started after high school. My son is going to college but plans to work in the industry someday.”
I beamed at him. “That’s so great. What about you, Richard?” I asked casually. “Any family in the business?”
He shook his head.
“What about your nephew?” Nate asked with a tilt of his beer bottle. “Didn’t I train him a few years ago?”
Richard’s face shifted from neutral to furious in seconds. “He moved away,” he gritted out.
