“Of course,” Myra agreed. “We will love all donuts equally, but the Puffin Muffin’s most of all.”
Jean rolled her eyes and placed the bag next to the coffee pot. “Don’t get into trouble.” She pointed at me. Then she pointed at Crow. “If you do anything, or don’t do anything to make her get into trouble, I will handcuff you to Odin. Without your silly hat.”
“Clever hat, you mean? The umbrella hat that keeps me dry? The hat that is a fashion statement that is totally trending? That hat?”
Jean pulled on her coat, flipped up the hood and pointed at it, like she was reminding him there were, indeed non-silly hats in the world. Then she strolled out into the light drizzle.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Myra and I were elbowing each other in a race to the bag of fritters.
She threw some sweet elbow blocking moves I’d never seen her use before and got there before me. She held the bag in her fist like a war prize. “Tell me what’s in the letter.”
“Not happening. Not even for those donuts.”
“Plus,” Crow said, “they are giving out free samples today. Delaney could just go get more for herself.”
Myra shot him a death glare. Crow smiled. “See how helpful I am?”
Trickster. Always trying to stir up trouble. We Reed girls got into enough of it on our own.
I knew how to solve the donut dilemma. Blackmail. “I’ll tell Jean you ate them all.”
“Seriously? You’d tattle?”
“Or, we could split the remaining donuts and never speak of it again.” I held out my hand. She looked at it for a moment, then took it in a firm handshake.
“Deal.”
“What about me?” Crow whined.
“They’re free. Get your own samples.”
Chapter 7
I had a day to kill before I could go meet my anonymous pen pal behind the diner, so I decided to check in with Old Rossi. I had a couple questions about that vampire-only telepathy that connected the members of his clan.
Had he felt Sven die? Had any other vampire? Had they heard his final thoughts, or had they seen through his eyes?
Was there a chance someone in town had seen or heard Sven’s killer?
Old Rossi held a number of classes each day. Usually things like yoga, meditation, and lately some kind of Zen scribbling. Calling ahead would have only gotten me his answering machine. I drove to his house.
Crow was in the passenger side of my Jeep. Since I’d lost the rock-paper-scissors to Myra, I was his default babysitter.
“You’re telling me you’re not dating Ryder?” Crow apparently didn’t know when to let a subject die.
I listened to the intermittent shush of windshield wipers while we stopped at the red light. Vacationers of the hearty Oregon variety walked the sidewalks, making the best of their beach stay with window shopping, hot caramel corn, wine and beer tastings.
I caught a glimpse of Chris Lagon, our local gill-man and owner of Jump Off Jack Brewery, wearing a tank-top and shorts, walking toward a coffee shop and looking happy as a gill-man in the rain.
The town’s three Furies—Al, Tisi, and Meg—laughed and shoved each other as they roller skated across the crosswalk. They wore roller derby shorts that showed off their dark legs and light jackets. They must be practicing for the Cake and Skate coming up. I wondered how Bertie had roped them into it.
Something bright and odd moved up ahead and I squinted at the man exiting a shop as I realized what theitwas. An umbrella hat. The person beneath it was tall and lean, and walked with the perfect posture I’d only seen Death carry off.
Great. Now Death had an umbrella hat. I hoped Crow hadn’t seen him.
“We’re not dating. You can get off that subject now.”
“Not dating doesn’t mean you don’t love him.”
