Crafting Disorder (Ponderosa Pines Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) Read online

  “Get in your car and wait for me.” He commanded. She did as she was told. Nate braced himself, then raced inside. Chloe heard some banging followed by a loud expletive. A minute or two later, a black shadow swooped out through the open door and into the night. Still worried about her precious babies, Chloe leapt from the car to run into the house.

  “Nate? Where are you? Sugar and Spice?”

  “They’re fine, Chlo, I found them.” Nate called from somewhere upstairs. She followed the sound of him cooing to the kittens, it lead her into her bedroom where Nate crouched on the floor. One hand holding up the dust ruffle, he leaned over to peer under the bed while he talked baby talk to the kittens in an attempt to coax them from their sanctuary. He stood up and moved aside slightly, forcing her to brush against him on her way by. Not taking his eyes off her, Nate stepped back and peeled the hoodie away from the tight white t-shirt he was wearing underneath. As he pulled it over his head, revealing a set of exquisite abs, Chloe nearly lost it.

  “It’s pointless,” she said quickly. “They won’t come out from under there until they’re ready. Come downstairs, I’ll make you a drink while we wait.” She had to get Nate out of her bedroom before the idea of what the “V” of his chiseled obliques was pointing toward caused her to jump him, right there on her rumpled bed. Turning away before any more naughty thoughts occurred to her; Chloe led Nate back to the kitchen.

  “I see half a bottle of coconut rum, some melon liqueur, and bubble gum flavored vodka.” Chloe declared, after searching her cupboards for cocktail fixings.

  Nate shot her a bemused look. “From what, Barbie’s after-Prom dream party?”

  “Ha ha; you’re so funny. It was girls’ night. No judgies.” Nate couldn’t help but notice the way Chloe’s shapely hips flexed as she stood on tiptoes to check another cabinet. He bit his lip and tried to hide the fact he’d been staring at her ass as she whipped around holding a half-full bottle of bourbon. “Ah-ha. I knew I had something manly in here.”

  Two hours later, and several sheets to the wind, Chloe sat cross-legged on the kitchen island, gesticulating wildly while relaying a story from her last trip to London

  “…so my Mother, in her infinite wisdom, decides we’ll simply camp outside their hotel and wait for them to come out. All this trouble, and when they do come out, Robert Smith isn’t even with the rest of the band. Her obsession with The Cure has always confused me, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how deep it ran. Not for nothing, but we ended up spending the rest of the night singing karaoke songs at some random pub. You should have seen her belting out “Mint Car.” It was hilarious. I do miss her.”

  She trailed off, becoming suddenly aware that Nate was staring at her with desire in his eyes. The look on his face matched hers from earlier, when she had been dangerously close to giving in to an errant impulse. Fortunately, the kittens chose that exact moment to make their reappearance.

  Spice made a beeline for the food dish, apparently having come close to starvation during her stay under the bed. Sugar, however, launched herself onto Nate’s lap. Tiny claws dug through denim and into flesh, emitting a startled yelp and an irritated grimace that softened into a smile when Sugar let out a loud purr and rubbed her head against his chin.

  “You’re lucky you’re cute, little one.” Nate chastised gently. And he’s a cat person. Chloe thought to herself. But that’s irrelevant—she tried to dismiss the notion.

  “Want me to walk you home?” Chloe asked, not sure what answer she was looking for.

  “Sure, as long as you’re not afraid to walk back by yourself.” She poked her tongue out at him and swatted him on the arm. It took a single comment to turn him from sexy man Nate into childish boy Nate.

  Crisp autumn air prompted Chloe to cross her arms and pull her sweatshirt close; Nate slung a casual arm around her shoulders and they fell into a comfortable silence until, trying to sound no more than mildly interested, he asked, “So what’s up with all the dates I hear you’ve been going on lately? Any keepers?”

  Chloe allowed the question to sink in for a moment before responding. “No, not likely. EV decided to stick her nose in my business. First it was Roger, that guy from Gilmore.” She looked at Nate out of the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction, but his face was blank. “Though that was more a fact-finding mission, anyway. She wanted me to see if he could tell me anything about the man who propositioned Gilmore to merge with Ponderosa Pines. It didn’t pan out, by the way. The business listed on his card has never heard of him. Nicholas Lane probably isn’t even his real name.”

  “You didn’t need to go out with Roger to find that out. I got his name and checked out the investment company as soon as we realized he was playing both ends against the middle. I’d bet money it’s not the only alias he used, and I’m looking into it. It’s police work now, Chloe. You and EV may know everything that’s going on around here, and I know you can do some serious Internet research, but in order to track this guy you’d need the skills of a first-class hacker or a private investigator.”

  His voice was stern, a warning for her not to get involved again. She wondered if he cared more that she was butting into his investigation, or that she could get hurt in the process. They were silent for a few more moments before Nate continued prodding.

  “So that explains Roger, but what about the others?”

  “Well, after she set me up with him, I wanted revenge, so I set EV up with an online dating profile, and when she found out she vowed to get even. Now I’ve been propositioned by every weirdo in the area.” She caught herself before adding,

  What EV really wants is to convince me that I need to date you.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll find a way to politely disentangle yourself; and lob the proverbial ball back into her court while you’re at it.” He kept his tone light to hide his relief. He was still annoyed, but knew he couldn’t stay mad at her forever. As they approached Nate’s front stoop, he pulled her close to him under the guise of a friendly hug, closed his eyes, and inhaled her perfume.

  Chloe’s head spun as she breathed him in; a combination of body wash and deodorant mingled with his natural musk to create a scent that was uniquely Nate. She looked up into his face, longing for him to kiss her and realized, for the second time that night, she was in trouble.

  No, Nate thought as he nearly gave in to the temptation to taste her full bottom lip before realizing they were both still a bit tipsy. If it’s going to happen, I want us both to have a clear head when it does.

  As he pulled away, Chloe’s face fell. She tried to hide her disappointment, mistaking his reluctance for disinterest. Well, I guess that’s that. Maybe the whole thing is too weird for him. EV doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  Nate stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned on it for support. Never in his life had it been so difficult to practice self-control. He turned, opened the door again, and nearly called out to Chloe before he realized she was halfway up the block, hoofing it back to her house. He couldn’t see the pained expression on her face, or the tears that wet her cheeks. Her name stuck in his throat, and by the time he could make a sound, she was gone.

  Chapter 9

  “You know, Dalton, I thought when I moved back here it would be easy as pie; I certainly didn’t realize that I’d be dealing with murderers, blackmailers, and thieves. It was never like this growing up. I hope it’s nothing more than a fluke; can’t imagine a crime ring breaking out in Ponderosa Pines.” He smiled wryly.

  “I think we’re safe. These thefts are getting blown way out of proportion. But we need to get the busybodies off our back. If they get there before we do, we’ll never live it down.”

  “With all this ruckus going on, I haven’t had a second to even check my messages. Let’s see if any of the stones we’ve managed to turn over were hiding our favorite neighborhood blackmailer.” Nate pulled out his cell phone and hit the voicemail and speakerphone buttons, expecting nothing but police-
related business.

  After all, his social life was fairly non-existent, and the one person who consistently called him was currently sitting at a desk to his right. Nate wasn’t prepared for the cloying voice of his mother, and quickly switched off the speaker when he heard her distinctive Hello.

  Dalton stifled a laugh when Nate’s fingers weren’t fast enough to keep him from hearing her refer to him as Pooks, a childhood nickname Nate despised, but couldn’t seem to convince her to stop using. Cheeks flaming, Nate decided to listen to his messages privately, in case anyone else had decided to leave him a humiliating voicemail.

  Barbara Harper, his dear mother, was one of the best prosecuting attorneys in Portland. Her opponents might think of her as a shark, but she turned into a fluffy bunny when it came to her only son. He had grown to accept her overbearing nature as compensation for making her career a priority, and leaving most of the childrearing up to Nate’s father, Martin. The two were used to being on their own together; Nate had stayed in the Pines after the divorce, while Barbara moved to the city and buried herself in her work.

  She’d been thrilled when he took a job at the Portland Police Department, and had inserted herself firmly into all aspects of his life. Now that he and his Dad were living under the same roof again, she had gone back to her distant ways. Nate wasn’t complaining; her attention had begun to feel oppressive, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her to back off. Martin Harper’s attitude was much more live and let live.

  Getting some distance from her was another check mark in the plus column for relocating back to the Pines for good.

  Bingo, the next message was from a police detective in Gilmore, with whom Nate had attended the academy.

  “Harper, it’s Grady. Found a couple of trustworthy citizens to work with a sketch artist on your phony investment banker. Didn’t turn up any legitimate leads in facial recognition. I’ll email the sketches to you, but I think your hunch is right; this guy’s white collar. He has used a couple of other aliases, so maybe you’ll get somewhere with those. That’s about all I can do under the radar. Let me know how it goes.”

  Nate made note of the three aliases Grady provided. “Well, Deputy, we’ve found a little something. Let’s see if we can turn it into a lot.”

  “He’s not a ghost, so he’s gotta be out there somewhere. If anyone can find out where he’s laying low, it’s you.”

  Chapter 10

  Dalton was the first person to see a figure in the woods, though, by the time he had gotten home from his evening hike, he’d convinced himself the twilight was playing havoc with his eyes, and what he’d seen was a deer. Before long, more reports of curious sightings began to trickle in.

  The Winslow boys, aged eight and ten, swore they’d seen the boogieman watching them through the trees one night when, instead of sleeping, they were looking out the window for their dad to come home from installing a set of his hand-built cabinets for a family down in Warren.

  A few days later, Nate received a call from Tank.

  “Harper. I don’t know if this is anything or not, but last night—I guess it was around eight—I heard a commotion out in the barn. Something spooked the horses. By the time I put my boots on, and made it out there, they were settling down, but I think I saw a bear going into the trees.”

  “You sure it was a bear?”

  Tank paused to think about it. “Now you mention it, I guess it could have been a man. If it was, he moved like a bear—sort of hunched over, with a limp.” Tank paused again. “Or a lurch.”

  “You want me to come out and take a look around?”

  “Nah, nothing to see. Checked this morning; didn’t find a thing. Just thought you should know.”

  Small town detectives, Nate thought, ought to leave the investigating to the pros.

  “You’ll call me if you see anything else?”

  “You’ve got my word on it.”

  A day later, Fleet Van Eck staggered into The Mudbucket and swore he’d seen a hellhound with blazing red eyes. Since Fleet’s own eyes were red, glassy, and his breath could knock over a tree, no one placed a lot of stock in his account.

  * * *

  Night fell like velvet around where Sabra Pruitt—wrapped in a blanket, and clutching the remote shutter release for her digital camera—sat in her back yard. In the two hours since midnight—spent huddled in a folding camp chair—she’d already counted thirty-two meteors.

  The tripod-mounted camera, fitted with a fish-eye lens, sat an arm’s length away, its glass eye pointed straight up in order to catch the most night sky possible. The soft click of the shutter was almost inaudible among the occasional call of a night bird, and the trilling of cicadas. It was so peaceful; she struggled against falling into a light doze, while hoping to capture multiple light tracks as the shower kicked into high gear.

  When the first rustling noise reached her ears, she figured it for a ‘possum. Maybe a raccoon—certainly nothing larger than that and refocused her attention to watching for streaks of light among the field of stars blanketing the sky. She’d no sooner caught a rare multiple streak as four separate meteors flashed overhead, when she realized the rustling noises sounded closer. Louder.

  Curiosity, rather than fear, drove her to lean over; to reach for the twist handle that would flip the camera back to its upright position, so when the mysterious figure came into view she was ready to hit the button on the remote. Assuming she was about to get a night shot of a deer, Sabra waited patiently and without fear. The flare gun on the table next to her might not be the wisest thing to shoot into the woods, but it would turn away a coyote or a bear. Probably.

  Hours spent in moonlight had sharpened her vision enough to see the dark shape moving through the woods. Not a coyote; it stood on two feet. A bear? Breath coming quickly and her heart pounding a staccato beat, Sabra had to concentrate to move without making noise as she reached for the flare gun, cradled it in her lap—just in case. Daddy always said not to provoke a bear. If she sat quietly, it would probably pass on by. Sabra pulled the blanket higher, covered all but her face in its fluffy darkness, and watched until the figure broke from the cover of the woods.

  It was close and coming closer.

  It didn’t move like a bear, but it didn’t look like man, either.

  Out of reflex, she punched the camera remote. The shutter slid open and closed. The quiet click seemed loud to her ears but the sound didn’t carry past the edge of her patio.

  Deliberately furtive, the man-thing sneaked toward the apple trees, where the last of the season’s blow-downs lay in a litter on the ground. Sabra glimpsed a head of shaggy hair, but the hand that reached out to pick through the pile looked human. In a short time, several apples disappeared into what she thought was a pack or bag of some kind, before the shaggy head turned toward the house.

  Definitely not a bear.

  Shadows fell over the face so Sabra couldn’t make out features, much less any facial expression.

  Barely breathing, she watched the intruder move toward the open-sided lean-to addition attached to the side of her small barn. A muted clatter slid across the air. Sabra imagined those white hands picking through the contents. What he might find useful, she hardly knew. Most of the detritus were items she had picked up at various flea markets—things she planned to do something with at some point in the future.

  Most of her finds ended up as part of a series of aborted art projects that never saw the light of day—or even worse—did. Several she gave as gifts to some of her friends. Priscilla Lewellyn had been the befuddled recipient of Sabra’s most ambitious project to date. The severed head of an antique carousel horse that Sabra had repainted and mounted for hanging. It might actually have made an interesting piece if not for the fact Sabra had spruced it up using a set of glitter paints intended for Christmas projects. Now the red, gold, and green horse head with its bared teeth and flashing eyes—red, glittery ones—hunkered above the toilet in Priscilla Lewellyn’s tiny guest bathroom
, looking like some demented hunting trophy from a North Pole massacre.

  The Yeti—for that was what Sabra had decided she was seeing—emerged from her storage area carrying an old metal grate she’d picked up because it had a floral pattern worked into the wrought iron. Indignant that she was being robbed, but not stupid enough to call attention to herself, she snapped a couple more photos as the figure lumbered off into the night, carrying its prize.

  When only the hooting of an owl broke the relative silence, Sabra deemed it safe to gather her things and move back inside. Meteors still shooting past went ignored, forgotten in her haste to get safely behind locked doors.

  Her heart still beat a strong tattoo against her chest. Excitement was already edging out fear, now that the feeling of being invaded had lessened, and her imagination had already begun generating scenarios—each one more fanciful than the next.

  Sabra’s boon companion, an impossibly fat pug dog named Muggly Puggington, followed her to the bedroom to watch with adoring eyes while Sabra changed into a pair of soft, bright red fleece pajamas printed with snowmen and penguins. While he waited for her to get into bed so he could snuggle up, a stray strand of doggy drool dangled toward the floor. Each raspy inhale sucked the drool back up like a sloppy little yo-yo.

  As with every other room in the inn, Sabra had painted her bedroom in a warm, earthy tone. In this case, brick red. A collection of empty perfume bottles ranged across the dresser like shining jewels. Though Sabra might not be able to manage more than simple craft projects, she had a knack for choosing exactly the right pieces to compliment her decor. A matching metal grate to the one the Yeti swiped from her cache sat on the chunky, dark-stained fireplace mantel recycled from an old support beam. Below the mantel, lay the hearth—another project up-cycled from its previous life—a grinding wheel from an old gristmill.