“Iz is fine,” Yolanda says. “There’s a sign on the door saying the Roc opens at seven today. You know what it’s like. Everyone’s so accustomed to our perfect clockwork of a town that they short-circuit when a gear breaks. I think it’s a water issue. Kendra’s on patrol, so they’re waiting for her to get back and fix it.”
I glance at Dalton, who only shakes his head. There is no water issue. Yolanda is saying that because people have shifted our way, trying to eavesdrop.
“Make way,” Yolanda says as she heads for the Roc. “Teething baby coming through. She needs her whiskey gum rub.”
“Uh, that’s not actually done anymore,” a nearby woman ventures.
“No, but it’s a fine excuse to get me into the bar early.”
The woman steps back, eyeing Yolanda uncertainly, as if her good mood is as suspicious as our hiking couple’s story.
Yolanda’s construction company built Haven’s Rock, and then she decided to take a break from entrepreneurship to helpus because that’s the kind of woman she is, endlessly sweet and kind, like her grandmother, Émilie.
Yeah, no one who spends five minutes with Yolanda mistakes her for sweet or kind. She’s here because she’s fiercely loyal to Émilie. Initially she suspected we were conning an elderly billionaire. She knows better now—in the sense that she knows we’re just a bunch of bleeding-heart idealists who are liable to all die of misplaced altruism if she leaves.
As for the good mood…
“How was your day shadowing Will?” I ask.
“I survived. Had to keep kicking his ass to get him moving. You know what he’s like. Heads out to do a task and stops to talk to five people on the way.”
More like five people stop him to talk, and our deputy, Will Anders, shoulders the weight of being the sociable third of our law-enforcement trio. Everyone likes Anders. Including someone who is in a remarkably chipper mood after spending the day with him.
Yolanda shoves open the Roc front door like she’s about to start a brawl.
“We’re closed,” someone snaps, and a woman appears from the dim interior. She’s in her late forties, wearing a tailored blouse, hiking boots, and jeans that perfectly hug her curves. “Ah, the calvary has arrived. There’s a toll for you, though, Ms. Yolanda.” Isabel scoops Rory from Yolanda’s arms. “There. Paid in full.”
“Hey, that was mine.”
“Actually mine,” I say. “And if you fight over my child, I am taking her back.”
Someone emerges from the shadows and takes Rory. “Problem solved. She’s with her favorite uncle.”
It’s Anders. Big and brawny, with close-cropped curls andskin a shade darker than Yolanda’s. He recently turned forty and has the kind of good looks that’ll still turn heads at twice that age. Anders chucks Rory under the chin and, on cue, the baby smiles her biggest smile.
“Even babies fall for you,” Yolanda mutters. “Unbelievable.”
“They have excellent taste.” Anders waves to us. “Come on in. Sit down. Have a drink. Well, you and I can have a drink, Eric. Casey’s still on mocktails.”
“I might actually pump and dump tonight,” I say.
His brows shoot up. “Rough hike?”
“Mmm, weird and potentially concerning hike. But I’m guessing by the way Yolanda was talking about a water issue that something else has happened.”
I look around and spot Phil behind the counter. Phil is Isabel’s boyfriend and, unofficially, the town mayor, and the order in which I place those two roles says a lot about Haven’s Rock. Or a lot about Isabel.
Phil is my age, white, handsome in a fussy, corporate way—even today, he’s wearing a button-down shirt and the glasses that I won twenty bucks on when I bet Dalton they weren’t prescription.
“Will, Isabel, and Phil all in one place,” I murmur. “Not a town meeting if the Roc is closed. Not even a town emergency. Could be that something happened while the coffee bar was open here this afternoon, but then Brian or Devon would be here. So something happened in the interim. Or something was discovered…” I rock back on my heels. “Shit. Did we have another break-in?”
Anders claps me on the back with his free hand while he bounces Rory. “Took you a while, Detective. Still blaming baby brain?”
I shake my head. The last break-in at the Roc was five monthsago and nothing was taken. My theory was that Carson snuck in looking for a stray beer, but wasn’t about to actually break into the stockroom to steal one. We announced the so-called break-in, and no one tried again. So I wasn’t exactly expecting a repeat months later.
“This time it wasn’t the kid,” Yolanda says. “I put a four-pack in their clubhouse. Only one was drank.”
I wince. “You gave beer to a fourteen-year-old?”
