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Piper licked her lips self-consciously. Her career choice usually came with questions. “I’m a horticulturist.”
“A what?”
“A horticulturist. I cultivate and propagate plants. I do research for fruit, vegetable, and flower growers and farmers. I do disease and pest investigations and also do research into improving resistance to disease in some plants.”
“You went from wanting to be a journalist and archaeologist to that?”
Piper had fielded lots of queries like this in her life. “It was Margaret Smith,” she admitted. “When she showed me around those beautiful gardens of hers and let me look at the outside of the greenhouses, I was just hooked.”
He tapped his fingers on the table as his eyes looked off into the distance. “So, the interview, it all really went to waste.”
Piper frowned. “Why on earth would you say that?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. The guy really could sell shampoo if he wanted to.
He took a long swig of beer. “I just mean that I always wanted to be a journalist. From a young age. I never wanted to do or be anything else.” He let out a long breath. “If I’d got that interview, it would have made me. My name would have been everywhere as the only person to ever interview Margaret Smith, the world-famous author.” He had a wry look about him, but not angry or upset—just exasperated.
“You seem to have done pretty well. Like I said, every time I turn on the TV, you’re there. It’s kind of annoying to be truthful.” She was trying to lighten the mood, take away from the melancholy feel she was getting from him right now.
He sighed and leaned his head on one hand. “There’s plenty of work for me. Let’s face it. You can’t get more sports than in Chicago. We’ve got just about everything covered.”
She looked at him curiously. “I always got the impression you loved your job. Isn’t sports journalism every guy’s dream?”
He straightened up and seemed to give himself a shake. “Of course. I do love it. I’m very lucky.” He held out both hands. “What other guy always gets free tickets to every sporting event in the city.” His hands moved, fingers tapping on the table. “I’d just like to do something different every now and then.”
“Like shampoo commercials?”
He laughed and shook his head. “What is it with you and shampoo commercials?”
She smiled and set her bottle of beer back on the table. Her voice was quiet. “Has it occurred to you that you’ve just been given the chance again?” She raised one eyebrow. “And this time you aren’t late for the party.”
He followed her gaze to the still unopened envelopes on the table. “These?”
Piper nodded. “Margaret Smith seemed to want to tell us another story.” Her blue eyes met his. “And it looks like you can tell this tale anyway you want to.”
His fingers brushed his envelope. “Tell this as a story?”
“Maybe, or tell it as a reporter. This is our story—your story. I have no idea what these clues are going to be like; I only know that we were instructed to do this ourselves.”
She could see the realization dawning on his face. Then it kind of fell and he picked up his envelope. “But the clues inThe Mistletoe Crown, they were easy. Everyone got them straight away.”
Piper shook her head. “They’re easy if you’re an adult, and you’ve read that book two hundred times as a child and they are ingrained in your brain.” She put her hand on her chest. “Don’t you remember the first time you read it? And you had to work things out for yourself? The word puzzles, the anagrams, the names, and the numbers. Maybe you were some kind of child genius, but as a nine-year-old I found some of them tricky. Everyone I knew did.”
“Okay,” he said slowly.
He rotated the envelope in his hand. Piper’s remained untouched. She was still processing all of this was real. Once she opened that envelope—then she was going to start on a journey she wasn’t sure she was ready for.
She held up her hand. “You mentioned jobs. What’s sports season like at Christmas? Because, I’m busy right now. I have a contract I’m working on, and to be honest, I don’t have enough hours in the day.”
He waggled his hands. “Most sports tend to quiet down around the Christmas season, basketball usually has a few showcase games just before Christmas, and one on Christmas day, but generally, I have a bit more time.” Dawson took a breath. “We can work around your schedule.”
She wasn’t quite sure why he was being so obliging. “The countdown is intimidating. Sort of like being in one of those escape rooms. Why on earth do we have to do this in a certain period of time?”
“No idea.” He stretched out his arms. “I got a weird vibe in there. I think there’s lots more that they didn’t tell us.”
“Mr. McNally,” she said without hesitation. “When he spoke about Margaret Smith, he seemed to get this dreamy look in his eyes, as if it was wistful, as if he was remembering things.”
Dawson looked surprised. “Really? You think there was something going on there?”
