Beach Thriller(67)
She’d seen that same unnatural whiteness before—on photocopies of her typed work that she’d made at the library. Not only had someone used Wite-Out on this report, but Holly was beginning to doubt she was even looking at the original.
And something else was off.
“There’s an item missing from the box,” she said to Finn, who came over to take a look. “It says here you recovered a partially melted prescription bottle for Lypotrel—whatever that is—but the bottle itself isn’t in here.”
Finn scratched his temple. “That’s odd,” he said.
Holly kept her suspicions about the gas report to herself. Until she knew who to trust, the less she said, the better.
“Do you mind if I take a picture of this inventory sheet?” she asked, lifting her phone.
Finn nodded permission. She snapped a photo.
This one box held many secrets: a potentially doctored report, a missing prescription bottle, Conrad’s blatant lie, and a surprising connection between Ethan and the Carmichaels. On top of that, there was proof Tommy Boy had been a key investigator—and the last person to handle the evidence.
Was he behind the threat she received at the cottage? Could he be part of a larger effort to scare her out of Beauport before she uncovered the truth?
Holly’s suspect list had just grown: Conrad, Elizabeth Ward, Maeve, the odd busker, Tommy Boy, and—she gulped—Ethan?
For Holly, justice had never felt so close—and yet still so far away.
* * *
She left the police station feeling dazed. The bright blue sky dazzled her eyes. She sensed the same strange aura she felt around Ethan, surrounding her like a fog. She pressed her fingers to her temples as she coped with the pounding headache.
At that precise moment, her phone rang. It was Gail.
Holly squinted at the screen, barely able to tap the answer button.
“How’d it go?”
“There are definitely things to look into,” Holly said.
“Like what?”
Before Holly could respond, a stab of pain cut through her thoughts. “Sorry,” she said, breathing heavily into the phone. “That whole experience gave me a brutal headache.”
“Do you get migraines?”
“Usually only when I write,” she joked—sort of. She winced as the throbbing intensified. “This one’s a doozy.”
“Have you seen a doctor? You should get checked out,” Gail said. “Go see Dr. Hill—I bet I can get you in right away.”
Holly couldn’t help but smile. Gail was clearly wired into this town.
“I have superpowers in Beauport, if you haven’t figured that out,” Gail continued. “And so does Dr. Hill. We call him the Candy Man. You won’t have any trouble getting a little something for that headache—or your nerves, for that matter.”
Holly had to admit something to help her settle didn’t sound so bad. And who better to ask about Lypotrel than a doctor?
Chapter 36
Jade
I’m beginning to regret my promotion.
We’ve been working together for an hour, but somehow it feels like a full day. Maeve’s usually organized environment is in disarray. Papers are strewn across her bonheur du jour—that’s the proper name, according to Maeve, for her delicate writing desk, which is now cluttered with invitations and notebooks, all part of her party-planning tool kit. She’s converted a plush stool into a makeshift workspace for the overflow paperwork.
The work is taking a toll on her—or maybe it’s her declining health. By anyone’s standards, Maeve looks ready for the opera, but I know better. Her perfectly coiffed hair has a few strands out of place. Her eyes are sunken, like a college student after pulling an all-nighter. A brooch hangs askew on her silky blouse, and her nails no longer have the sheen of a fresh weekly manicure.
It’s hard to work knowing my boss’s days are numbered, and Rose’s warning weighs heavily on me. Meanwhile, I’m toying with a mildly hazardous plan to ignore Conrad’s orders. I’m not vying for Employee of the Year, that’s for sure.
As for this party, we’ve already accomplished a lot in a short period. The first task was the menu, which Maeve and I reviewed with the caterer. For the record, if I were the caterer, I’d have quit. Maeve made enough last-minute changes that it felt like starting from scratch—and she did so without even an apology. On top of that, she added twenty more people to the guest list.
I could tell the caterer was fuming. Her tone was clipped as she acquiesced to one change after another until all of Maeve’s requests were approved. I’m guessing this is her biggest job of the summer, and she can’t afford to say no.
Next, we went over lighting, music (trust me, Maeve and I didn’t see eye to eye—all jazz? no dance music? no hip-hop? gimme a break), and lastly, attire. Maeve reviewed the dress code for the Barefoot Beach Ball, which unsurprisingly insisted upon no shoes. It’s bright dresses, festive colors, upscale beachy. Don’t show up in your ratty old bathing suit, she warned.
“This party is my ode to the ocean,” Maeve explains. She walks to the window, where she gazes at the vast expanse of water stretching out before her, like a sea captain’s wife keeping watch for her husband’s return.