Chapter Ten
On her day off, Morgan bowed to pressure and sat in a chair at Styling salon.
The stylist, Renee, wore her pink-tipped golden-brown hair in a gorgeous fishtail braid. She took one look at Morgan’s hair and sighed.
“Woman, what have you been doing?”
“I just…” In defense, Morgan pushed a hand through her hair. “Snipped a little.”
“We’re going to make a deal.”
“We are?”
“If you like what I do, you never snip again.” Now she combed her fingers through Morgan’s hair. “Nice and healthy. Natural blonde, too, like your mom. You’re a lucky one. What are you looking for?”
“Simple, easy to deal with. I used to wear it a little shorter, more angled. But I was afraid to snip that much.”
“Praise Jesus.” Renee narrowed her eyes, studying Morgan in the mirror. “You’ve got a good face, strong, pretty, diamond shaped. We’re going bold and sassy.”
“Oh, well—”
“Trust me. You’re going to love it.” After the shampoo, which felt wonderful, Morgan sat back in the chair. Sounds and scents bounced around the salon as Renee snipped.
She’d never spent much time in salons, just a quick cut every six weeks or so. In and out. Here people seemed to linger, holding conversations in the pedicure chairs or at the manicure tables, while more voices, the snap of scissors or buzz of razors carried around with voices from the chairs.
Like a bar, she realized, it was a kind of world with regulars, walk-ins, and those who served them.
“It’s a good cut,” Renee decided as she squirted something in her hands, rubbed them together. “And you got body, so you won’t need a lot of product unless you want to fuss it up. You get some of what I’m using.” She began combing her fingers through again. “Like this, before you blow-dry. Or you can use it between shampoos on dry hair.”
“Okay.”
Renee smiled as she began to wield the blow-dryer and a brush. “Watch what I’m doing here. It’ll be easy to maintain. You’re going to have the sassy, the layers, a touch of shaggy, right? And this long sweep of fringe from right to left. Got your bold. It’s not going to look all done up, and it’ll have nice movement.”
Amazed, Morgan watched the transformation until she sat complete. Gone was the blunt, angled cut she’d worn before. Gone the admittedly inexpert attempts to trim.
Her hair looked fresh and fun, and no, not all done up, which she didn’t have the time or skill to maintain.
What she had? Easy, casual, and—she supposed—bold and sassy.
She lifted her gaze to Renee’s in the mirror. “I will never snip again.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Can I book an appointment for when you think I need it done again?”
“I like hearing that even more. We’ll set you up.”
She drove to the nursery a few miles outside of the town proper, bought pansies and pots and everything she needed to plant them.
When she heard her ladies come home, she poured wine.
“Morgan, the pansies! They’re so sweet! Something smells so good. Did you cook? It’s not your day to— Oh my God!” Her mother stopped dead. “Your hair. Your hair’s adorable!”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Turn around, turn around. I love it. Mom, look at our girl!”
“I am. It suits you. Young, confident. What are you making here?”
“I found a recipe for leftover chicken, and it seemed easy. It always seems easier than it is, so I won’t believe that again. But I think it’s good. I tasted it, and I think it’s good. Chicken chili.”
“What a surprise. Three surprises at once. And all wonderful.” Audrey took the wine. “What a busy day you’ve had.”
“It felt good. It all felt good.”
“Let’s all sit down a minute.” Olivia picked up her wine. “And feel good.”
When Nell hustled into the bar just before noon, Morgan stood behind the bar handling the setup.
“First, great hair.”
“Thanks. Can I get you something?”
“Not yet. Where’s Nick?”
“In the dentist’s chair getting a root canal.”
“Ouch.” Instinctively Nell sucked air between her teeth.
“Reminds me to get a local dentist.”
“Are you working a double? Couldn’t you get anyone to cover?”
“Charlene’s kid’s home sick. Rob has two classes today and finals coming up, so I didn’t want to pull him in. I’d have tried Becs but she worked a double yesterday because Charlene has a sick kid. The Lodge has a private event so it didn’t make sense to tap them when I could come in. It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“How sick? Which kid? Jack or Lilah?”
“Jack, and his fever broke this morning. He’s better.” And it mattered, Morgan thought, that Nell had asked, and knew the names of Charlene’s children.
“Okay then. My brothers are coming in. We’re having a meeting, grabbing some food.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m early. Miles will be on time. Liam will be late.” Sliding onto a stool, she tapped the sign placed in front of sprigs of lavender in a bud vase. “So?”
“Moving nicely. Group of five—spa packages, annual repeaters—ordered two rounds. Want to try one?”
“Not yet. My mother said the one you had delivered to her was delicious. That was cagey of you, pinning her location, sending her one. I respect cagey.”
“I’m glad she liked it.”
“She did. Actually, I could use a latte.”
“How about a lavender latte?”
The look that crossed Nell’s face combined fascination with horror. “Are you joking?”
“I’m not. You game?”
“If I say no, I’m a weenie. And that’s more cagey.”
“You’re no weenie.” Morgan walked to the coffee machine. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make you a regular. I heard about the new summer event—the Picnic by the Lake.”
“Really?” Shifting, Nell watched Morgan work. “Word travels.”
“It does if you listen. It’s a great idea. Yours?”
“Something my mother and I came up with brainstorming.”
“Good brains. I’m going to have staff fighting duels to work it. And it’s a way to keep things fresh and new. Like a lavender latte,” she said as she set the oversize cup in front of Nell.
“We’ll see about that. Have you heard about the ropes course?”
“No. I’m obviously not listening hard enough. You’re adding a ropes course?”
“It’s Liam’s baby, and why we’re meeting today, or mostly.” She paused to take a cautious sip of coffee. Then another. “And okay, this is really good. Who the hell thinks of things like this?”
“I think it got its jump start in Asia.”
“Wherever.” She sipped again. “I’ll have my assistant make up another sign. Which, from the smug look on your face, you hoped for.”
“Is this my smug look?” Morgan patted her hands on her face. “I thought I put on my quietly satisfied look. Something like this wouldn’t have gone over at the Next Round, but with your clientele, it’ll work. Keep it priced for the season the same as a standard latte—the cost in additional ingredients and labor is minimal—and we’ll move it.”
“Done. Miles.” Nell shifted again as her brother walked in. “Taste this.”
He shook his head, looked at Morgan. “Black coffee. Did you shift to days?”
“Root canal,” Nell began, “sick kid, finals. She’s pulling a double. One taste.”
“Jesus.” He took a quick glug, then looked sincerely baffled. “Flowered coffee? Why?”
“Miles is a coffee purist. It’s not coffee unless it’s black.”
“Then this should fill the bill.”
“Right. Liam’ll have a Coke when he gets here.”
“Cheese fries with that?”
Miles held Morgan’s gaze. No, not a pretty show horse, she thought again. But a really, seriously great-looking workhorse.
“Probably. We’ll grab a booth in the back.”
Still no suit, Morgan noted as they walked away. Black trousers, crisp blue shirt, good shoes—which he wore as easily as his blunt attitude.
She’d gauged Nell as a tough nut, but she’d made some cracks there. Miles struck her as tougher yet, but she’d find a way.
People began to wander in. With the private event at the Lodge, guests who wanted a casual meal would hit Après. Good, she decided as she filled the first drink orders. She’d keep busy.
When Liam rushed in—hiking boots, black sweater, jeans—Morgan gestured to the back booth.
“I’m a little late. They didn’t order yet, did they?”
“No.”
“Cool. Can I get a—”
She offered a tall glass of Coke with a lemon twist.
“Great, perfect. Read my mind.”
He hustled back to the booth.
Not a tough nut, that one, Morgan thought. But kind of a sweetheart. Then she turned her attention to the two women, obviously sisters, potentially twins, who slid onto stools.
The one on the left frowned at the bar sign. “What’s a lavender margarita?”
“Delicious,” Morgan assured her.
She worked the double, and before five, placed the lavender latte sign on the bar. Nell was as good as her word.
At midnight, when she started to dream about a nice hot shower and a soft warm bed, she had six tables, five booths, and five of the eight bar stools occupied.
Miles came in, took a stool at the end of the bar, took out his phone.
The twins—thirty-eight, down from Middlebury for a three-day sister trip—came in for a post-fancy-dinner drink. Lavender margaritas. Once she’d served them, she moved down to Miles.
“Glass of Cab?” she asked.
He just nodded, so she poured the drink and left him to it.
Forty minutes later, she said good night to the twins, and wondered what her life would have been like if she’d had a twin sister. Or brother. Or any sibling at all.
When the boisterous table of six called it a night, the noise level dropped with their departure. That left her with two guys on stools with a couple of swallows of beer left in their glasses, a party of four polishing off a bottle of wine, a couple sipping their second martinis, and Miles.
“Last call, gentlemen. Would you like another round?”
They declined, cashed out. The party of four left minutes later.
“I’ll cash out table three for you, Holly. You can call it a night.”
“It was a night. I thought table three would be making the bedsprings sing an hour ago.”
“Martinis as foreplay.”
With a laugh, Holly went into the back for her coat, and Morgan poured two glasses of still water over ice. She set one in front of Miles.
“Thanks.” He didn’t look up. “You’ve hit last call, and Mr. and Mrs. Martini are still drinking so they missed the cutoff. You couldn’t let Holly close the bar.”
“The captain’s the last to leave the ship. And Mr. Martini’s married, but that’s not his wife.”
He looked up now, tiger eyes steady, curious. “How do you figure?”
“He’s wearing a ring; she’s not.”
“Could be having it sized.”
“Could. Not. She’s twelve, maybe fifteen years younger.”
“Nothing to that.”
And seeing she’d gained his interest, thought she felt the first cracks in that tough nut.
“Not by itself, no.” She glanced over at them as she sipped her water. “When they’re not involved in the numerous PDAs they’ve indulged in, he expounds and she listens, wide-eyed, like he’s the most fascinating man she’s ever met, and when she went out to the ladies’, he watched her ass. He didn’t drool, but it was close.”
“Maybe they’re still very attracted to each other.”
“He got a call when she was in the ladies’, and I’m betting that was Mrs. Martini. It annoyed him. He was brief. You might say curt. Then he took a serious drink, scowled, and fiddled with his wedding ring. That’s when he ordered the second round.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
Morgan leaned on the bar. “Are you a wagering man, Miles?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll bet you a crisp dollar bill I’m right.”
“I might not have a crisp one on me.”
“You can owe me. Anyway, he told his wife he had out-of-town business. She doesn’t believe that, so she’s called and texted several times. He’s told his new to newish side piece he’s in the middle of a difficult, protracted divorce. Maybe she believes that, maybe not, but either way, she’s getting spa treatments and a classy hotel room and that platinum cuff she keeps playing with that came out of the resort’s jewelry boutique. It was in the display window. It’s gorgeous.
“Excuse me.”
Mr. Martini signaled. Morgan put their bill in a folder.
Miles watched her deliver it, hold a quick conversation as he added a tip, signed the bill.
“Have a lovely night, Mr. and Mrs. Cabot.”
The woman giggled and snuggled up against Mr. Martini. “Oh, we’re not married. Yet.”
Morgan lifted the empties, wiped the table with the bar mop, and tucked it in her waistband.
“I owe you a dollar.”
“Yes, you do. A crisp one.” She loaded the martini glasses, the wineglass, the water glasses, the shakers, the garnish plates onto a tray, took them back into the kitchen.
When she came out, he was gone. With a shrug, she emptied the ice, wiped down the sink. She closed the register, locked the cash drawer, gave the bar and bottles a last thorough wipe down.
He came back, wearing a black coat and scarf.
“Sorry, sir, the bar’s closed.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh. Thanks, but you don’t have—”
“I have to get my car anyway. Get your coat.”
She got her coat, her knit cap, her scarf, her gloves.
He took one look at her bundled up. “Taking a side trip to the Arctic?”
“These cold Vermont nights don’t translate into spring for me yet.”
He turned off the lights, and she took one glance back—everything in order—before going through the arch with him.
They crossed the quiet lobby where the night man read a paperback at the desk.
“Good night, Walter.”
“Night, Morgan. Good night, Miles. Drive safe.”
They stepped out into the slap of cold. Not the blast it had been the month before, Morgan decided, but still a solid slap.
They turned left, down the wide walkway, away from the front gardens and guest parking to the staff lot. The owners had reserved parking with their names on the curb. His—a husky black SUV—sat alone, but he walked past it with her.
“I’m right over there. Thanks for the escort.”
“Do you mean that?” He walked several steps closer to Nina’s car. “You need more than a dollar if you’re driving that.”
Her hackles might have risen if it hadn’t been pure truth. “I’m looking at cars.” Soon, she thought.
“Look faster. I’ll wait to make sure it starts.”
“It’ll start. Thanks again. Good night.”
She crossed to it, got out of the cold air into the somehow colder air of the car. It grumbled, it coughed. She closed her eyes and prayed. And when it turned over, she promised herself she’d look seriously for a car on her next day off.
But for now it only had to get her home. She glanced in the rearview, saw Miles standing, hands in his coat pockets, watching her drive away.
And she thought, yes, she’d made that first narrow crack in the shell.
The week zipped by. She banked her pay, the bulk of her tips, then spent her Monday morning researching used cars online. She concluded she could afford a decent, dependable used car, but could better afford one if Nina’s car lived one more month.
“One more month,” she murmured.
Winter’s back was broken, and if spring hadn’t taken full advantage, if snow and cold continued to threaten, the worst still lay in retreat.
Another month meant a more substantial down payment, less to finance. And Nina’s car only had to get her to work and back, run the occasional errand, get into town if she helped out at the café.
She put that aside, started to research easy recipes instead.
When that scared her off, she decided to take a walk.
Clear the head, she thought as she pulled on boots. Figure out what step to take next. She couldn’t keep running in place indefinitely.
Yes, she had a job, she reminded herself as she stepped outside. A good job, one she liked a great deal. She had shelter, and she’d found living with her ladies an education.
She didn’t miss her house. It hadn’t been her home after Nina died. She missed Nina, and always would, and the friendship she’d had with Sam. Her coworkers and bosses who’d become her family when she’d rooted.
She paused, looked over the shockingly blue sky toward the mountains. She hadn’t had this, she thought. Hadn’t had this painting in her own backyard.
She’d have four seasons here, too. Couldn’t she already see the first hints of spring? And yes, the change in the air, in the light.
The next step?
“The car, Morgan. You know it. Suck it up, and go find a car.”
Because it wasn’t just the money, it was letting go of that last piece of Nina, that last tie with the before.
She went back inside, dressed like a woman who knew her own mind. She got the paperwork—the title Nina’s parents had signed over to her, her insurance papers, banking information, whatever she could think of.
With everything in a folder, she put on her lucky earrings. Negotiating a price and getting financing would take some luck.
She could expect the rockiest of rock bottom on a trade-in, but she’d make it work.
“Dealerships want to sell cars, don’t they? They’d make it work, too.”
She fussed with her hair—sassy and bold, she remembered. Then went downstairs, dragged on her coat.
When she opened the door to leave, Special Agents Morrison and Beck stood in the portico. Everything inside her froze.
“Ms. Albright. You’re going out? We can come back.”
She stared at Morrison. “I was just— No, it’s not important. Come in.” She stepped back like someone caught in a dream. “I’ll take your coats.”
When she had, she hung them, very precisely, in the hall closet. “I’ll make coffee.”
“Don’t trouble,” Beck told her. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“Yes, of course. We’ll sit down.”
In the living room they each took a chair, so she sat on the couch. Gripped her hands together in her lap.
“He—he did it again, to someone else. You’ve come to tell me he’s done it to someone else. Is she dead?”
“A woman in Tennessee, outside of Nashville. Single,” Beck continued, “a slender blonde, age twenty-nine. She was found two days ago by her sister when the victim didn’t answer calls or texts or report to work.”
“Her bank accounts had been emptied. Multiple loans had been taken out in her name, using her house as equity. Her car was stolen. The sister identified Gavin Rozwell as the man her sister had been seeing for a few weeks.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. She just couldn’t.
“He went by the name John Bower,” Beck told her. “He claimed to be a freelance photographer working on a book. Her name was Robin Peters.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened to her. I’m sorry for her family. I don’t understand why you’ve come all this way to tell me.”
“Previously, he left nothing behind. If the victim wore jewelry, he took it, along with anything else of value. In this case, the victim was found wearing this.”
Beck took out a photo, passed it to Morgan.
“That’s—that’s my locket. The locket my grandmother gave me. It was her mother’s. There’re pictures inside. My grandmother’s parents inside. I don’t understand. He gave this to her before he did this?”
Morrison waited until Morgan looked at him.
“We don’t think so. The sister couldn’t identify it. None of her coworkers had seen her wear it. Rather than the photos you listed in your statement at the time of the incident, this locket held these.”
She took the next printout, and stared at the photo of her own face, and one of the man she’d known as Luke Hudson.