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Beau laughed as he led her forward. “You’ve been promising me that particular meal since we were seven.”
They neared four large bay doors, rolled up to reveal a ladder truck, pumper truck and utility truck in standard fire engine red. The unmistakable scent of fuel, brass cleaner and coffee lingered in the air. Uniforms hung neatly against the wall, ready for any emergency. Safety posters graced the walls and men and women walked around the garage talking and joking as they tidied up the station, revealing a tight-knot bond forged in danger.
And there he was, the man with answers she wanted. He stood laughing with a fellow firefighter, his chestnut hair draped across his forehead, the corners of his eyes crinkled in humor.
“Hi, Christopher,” she called.
He brightened when he spotted her. Other firefighters glimpsed her, as well, and grinned. One in particular really seemed to notice. Tall and lean with dark hair, he peered at her hard, his lips curved in a parody of a smile. Did he imagine wearing her skin?
She shifted closer to Beau, who never acknowledged the guy, as if completely oblivious.
“Hey, Jane! Good to see you. Is that a casserole I spy?” Gray Henderson stood next to Mr. Skin and waved. Gray had been one year behind her in school. “Maybe now Chris will stop whining about never having a decent meal.”
Another firefighter waved as well. “We’ve all been missing you and your casseroles.”
“Please tell me that’s the teriyaki chicken you brought the last time you were here?” someone cried with his hand pressed over his chest.
Teriyaki chicken. Christopher’s favorite food. The dish she’d baked most during their time together. “No, this is chocolate lava cake.” As moans of delight rang out, she added, “I’m sure Christopher will share.”
Mr. Skin hadn’t stopped staring at her. Who was he? She’d never encountered him before.
“I won’t share.” Christopher hurried over to meet her halfway. His gaze slid to Beau, and his smile slipped a little. A common occurrence in the powerful war vet’s presence. Beau hadn’t yet learned the art of dialing down his glare. “Um. Hi.”
“Christopher Wellington, meet Beau Harden, my elementary school and current best friend. Beau, meet Christopher, my ex. He attended school in Blueberry Hill, Oklahoma before moving to Georgia his senior year of high school.” Now that introductions were done. “I brought you this chocolate lava cake to thank you for your extraordinary care.” She tilted the handle in his direction, ready to launch into a prepared speech. “Regarding your magnificent rescue, I was wondering if?—”
“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” he rushed out, his countenance falling further. An odd reaction.
“Nonsense. You dashed to my aid, and I will be forever grateful. Speaking of your heroic heroism?—”
“Can I be honest with you, Jane?” Guilt passed over his expression. “When the call came in, I was shopping for groceries with some of the guys and picked it up on my radio. As soon as I heard the address, I panicked. Maggie, my girlfriend–maybe you know her? Maggie Johnson. She works at the Golden Gears Auto Shop. She was supposed to be with her friend at the tearoom for a book club meeting. But I saw Abigail at the store without Maggie, and I feared my Mags had gone to the shop early and gotten hurt. I hurried to get to her. Then I found you.”
“Wait.” Jane tried to make sense of his words. “Maggie Johnson, your girlfriend, was expected to participate in a writer’s meeting with her friend, a woman named Abigail. Who you saw at the grocery store before the murder. And this very real writer’s club was scheduled to meet at the tearoom. Did Maggie Johnson, your girlfriend, and her friend Abigail, recently receive a secret invitation to join this club for the first time, or were they regular members?”
His brow furrowed. “Regular members. They attend the last Saturday of every month at ten.”
“So the club wasn’t made up,” Jane gasped out. But. Hmm. Her invitation had demanded her presence at 9 a.m., not ten. “Back to Maggie Johnson, your girlfriend, and her friend Abigail No Last Name. But out of curiosity, do they write murder mysteries?”
He frowned. “Yeah. They aren’t published yet, but I’m sure they would give you pointers if you’re interested. I spoke at one of their meetings.” Pride lifted his chin. “Got to share my knowledge of firefighting. That’s how I met Maggie, in fact.”
Wow. The coincidences were piling up. Perhaps Maggie and her friend Abigail had co-written a horribly executed reverse cozy mystery centering around the slaying of Hannah and Chris’s ex. Then the pair turned fantasy into reality. Hello publicity stunt! Abigail could have spied on her phone across the street while Maggie did the deed.
Well, well. Looked like Jane had a new theory and another suspect. Not to mention Mr. Skin. He’d stepped away from the others and watched her unabashedly from a corner.
“Pointers,” she said, forcing herself to focus on Christopher. “From the girls. Because yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “I’m writing a book. A pre-best-selling novel detailing my experiences. For reference, because I’ll be attending the next writer meeting, what is Abigail’s last name?” Jane asked as casually as she was able. “Maybe I know her.”
“Waynes-Kirkland.”
Cha-ching. “What a surprising and unexpected piece of information.” Do not grin. Do not.
“Will you excuse us, Christopher? After you tell me who the guy in the corner is. Without looking.”
Of course, Christopher looked. So did Beau.
Christopher sighed. “That’s Donnie Eggerson, the new guy. Don’t pay him any mind. He’s the most socially awkward person I’ve ever met. Creeps everyone out. Especially pretty girls.”
So it wasn’t only Jane. Sensing they discussed him, Donnie finally stopped “smiling” at her and skulked behind a wall. “Good to know,” she said. “But as I mentioned before, I just realized there’s something I absolutely must do, and it can’t wait a moment longer. We’ll talk again soon, I promise. Okay bye.”
She shuffled Beau away. Did this line of thought seem too easy? Yes. Entirely. But Jane’s gut shouted, Maggie and Abigail are involved. Somehow! As if to emphasize her point, the clock tower in the town square chimed.
