"Weird, huh?" I said. "Definitely not a pendant. Maybe some kind of good luck charm." I put my arm through his and slid the tusk into my bag.
"I was starting to wonder if I'd missed a signal and was supposed to meet you here." He grinned my way. "I know you like back halls."
"I do."
His hand slid down to my rear. I tensed. I didn't mean to, but I was still off balance and struggling to find my way back. He pulled his hand away fast.
"Sorry," I said. "Just . . . distracted."
I tried to remember the dance, what it had felt like, my body against his. Then I pushed my mind back to the last charity event we'd attended, when we'd slipped into a back corridor and had sex against the wall, delicious sex. I felt the first licks of heat, but it wasn't enough. Yet I didn't want to say no, either. I could feel that slow ache. I just couldn't shake thoughts of the man I'd just met.
"Let's do something this weekend," I said. "I mean, if you're not busy--"
"I'm not." His arm tightened around me as he moved closer while we walked.
"I'm done working at three on Friday and I'm off Saturday. I can try to wrangle Sunday, too. We could go away. If you want."
He grinned. "I do."
"Good."
"And right now, I think it's late enough to say our goodbyes and spend some quality time eating frozen custard. If you still want."
I smiled. "I do."
--
It takes a special talent to enjoy frozen custard mere minutes after being confronted by an otherworldly being who hands you a boar's tusk. I have that talent. It's called acting. I'd been a dedicated member of every school troupe from elementary through college. I'm a natural, which may be what comes from growing up feeling as if I was playing a role in someone else's drama. For James's sake, I had to eat custard and smile and laugh, because that's what he expected and he hadn't done anything to deserve less. So I enjoyed our post-date treat and then zoomed home, punched in the code to my new security system, and took out my phone to . . .
To what?
Call Gabriel. That was the first thing I thought of. I had to call Gabriel and tell him . . .
It wasn't a question of "tell him what?" I could tell him about this. He'd listen. He'd believe. He'd strategize. The question was, Why him? I'd reflex-dialed Gabrie
l Saturday night, but that had at least been for professional advice--how to handle finding a part of a corpse in my bed. This was personal.
--
At work the next day, the Clarks came by midmorning, as they usually did, for tea and scones. I waited until my break. Then I spoke to them about Ciara Conway. I wanted to talk about her. I could move through my days, act like nothing was wrong, but I was keenly aware that a young woman was dead and her family didn't know it. If there was anything I could do to ease my conscience, I would do it.
"I feel like I should do something," I said after we talked. "I'm not exactly a detective, but Gabriel taught me how to do some basic legwork. Maybe I can prod the police into conducting a better investigation."
"You did very well with your mother's case," Ida said. "You may have found your calling: Olivia Jones, private eye." She looked at her husband. "We don't have one of those in Cainsville, do we?"
"I don't believe we do."
"And we sorely need one," Patrick said from across the diner, his gaze not rising from his laptop screen. "To chase down overdue parking tickets and find lost puppies. Speaking of which . . ." He glanced at me. "Did I hear that your cat has disappeared?"
I nodded. "I've hated to mention it, with Ms. Conway missing."
Ida frowned. "The black stray?"
"Yes. I was taking out trash that morning. He must have slipped out. But if you do spot him, I'd like to know he's okay."
"Of course."
Ida looked around at several of the other elders, dotting tables throughout the diner, as if knowing they'd be listening in. They all glanced over and said no, they hadn't seen TC, but they'd keep an eye out.