A Desolate Hour. Mae Clair
stepping back from the business. Quentin and his sister were more than capable of running the firm, but Prentice Marsh was reluctant to let go of the small empire he’d built. Maybe because Quentin’s heart had never been in the venture. He hadn’t gone to Juilliard to earn a living in the business world.
“Give Dad a token or two,” Quentin suggested. “Ask for his advice on the Lawford account. He needs to ease into retirement.”
“I’m already ahead of you. I shared the portfolio with him this afternoon. He grumbled about the numbers being off, but signed it anyway.”
“Did Lawford like it?”
“Sold.” There was a smile in Penelope’s voice. She was more than capable of running the whole enterprise herself. Would be, if not for the accident that left him crippled with a maimed hand. “That’s all that matters. Who would have thought advertising could be so cutthroat?”
“Our competitors.” Best not to go down that route. It would make him edgy, worrying he should get back to calling shots as vice president of Marsh Media instead of chasing moldy history and curses in a flood-prone river town. “Look, it’s getting late and I still haven’t eaten. I need to grab something before this town shuts down. I’ll check in with you again, okay?”
“Are you going to Tu Ende Wei tomorrow?”
“I did that earlier. There’s nothing to be gained there.”
“What about the courthouse? Check for records.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve got to wait until Monday.”
“Talk to some of the locals, too.”
“Pen.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you believe in this stuff. Maybe I do too after everything that’s happened, but if I come up blank—”
“You have to try.” Her voice hitched. “When I have my twins, I don’t want them afflicted by the same curse that’s plagued our family for generations.”
“Maybe it’s just coincidence like Dad tried to tell us.”
She huffed a breath into the phone. “If you weren’t my brother—”
“If I weren’t your brother—your twin brother—I wouldn’t be doing this for you.” A smile crept into his voice. “Good-night, Pen.”
“Good-night.” Her tone softened. “Stay safe.”
Quentin walked back to the window and flicked the curtains aside. There was no sign of the Cadillac, but the image of it niggled the back of his mind.
* * * *
The café was mostly deserted, which suited Quentin fine. A blond-haired guy sat hunched over a beer at the bar, looking like he’d been there for a while. Two others who bore a facial resemblance and might have been brothers sat adjacent to him.
Quentin got a table in the back, ordered a rum and Coke, then chose a burger from the menu. The waitress was young and perky with a name tag that read: Nancy. She asked a few questions in a chatty manner—Where was he from? How long was he staying?—but he kept his answers short and vague. Despite what Penelope said, he had no intention of becoming too chummy with the locals.
Nancy left him to savor his drink, promising to return when his food was ready. Eve Flynn came in and spoke to the bartender briefly. She was closing the lobby for the night but was expecting her husband at the café. From the deserted look of the place, Quentin wondered if he was the only guest of the hotel. The three guys at the bar all had the look of locals, people long comfortable with the setting. Outside, night blanketed the street, visible through the front windows and the cutaway in a door that exited to the sidewalk. The rum helped ease the stiffness from his muscles, especially his mangled hand. When his burger came, he asked for another drink.
He was halfway through his meal when the blond at the bar swiveled around on his stool to survey the room. He’d seen Quentin come in, but focused on him as if spying him for the first time. Drink clutched in hand, he wobbled from the stool and meandered closer.
“You gotta be staying at the hotel.” Uninvited, he plopped down in a seat across from Quentin. The glazed look in his eyes said he was already a good way to being drunk.
Perfect. Just what he didn’t need.
“Yeah.” Quentin kept eating, hoping the guy would take the hint and leave.
“Nice place, don’tcha think?”
Quentin nodded and put two fries in his mouth.
The man was quiet for a moment, a scowl tugging his lips. He seemed young, maybe twenty-five, with a scruffy look as if he hadn’t seen a razor in days. “Let me tell you about Point Pleasant.” He plunked his drink on the table and rocked his chair back on the hind legs. It was surprising he could balance. “Do you know who I am?”
Quentin wiped his mouth with a napkin, then took his time setting it on the table. “You’re the guy who’s interrupting my dinner.”
The blond guffawed. “Hey, that’s good! But I’m Shawn Preech.” He said it like Quentin should recognize the name. “You know…king of the dirt track around here.” He spread his hands wide when Quentin continued to stare at him. “Sprint cars?”
Quentin picked up his drink. “Sorry, I don’t follow racing.”
Shawn’s chair thunked to the ground. “Then what the hell are you here for?” No mistaking the belligerent edge. The last thing Quentin wanted was an argument or worse, but it looked like his drunken companion was egging for trouble.
“Hey, Shawn. Get back here,” the bartender called. “You don’t want Eve to ban you from the place again, do you?”
Shawn snorted. Draining his drink, he staggered toward the bar. “That woman can’t do nothing to me.”
“Caden’s on his way in,” the bartender warned.
“Like I give a fuck.” Shawn waved his empty glass in the air. “I’m not afraid of some sheriff’s sergeant. I’m a celebrity.”
“You mean you were,” one of the guys at the bar said.
“Huh?” Shawn rounded on the copper-haired man who’d made the observation. “What are you yapping on about, Duncan?”
“It’s true,” his companion said. Definitely brothers. They had the same inflection to their voices. “You haven’t won a race in months. Ever since Suz—”
“Don’t say that bitch’s name.” Shawn slammed his empty glass on the bar. “I’ll be glad when this shitty divorce is over.”
“Then sign the papers.” Duncan pointed out the obvious solution.
“And give her what she wants? Hell, no.” Shawn climbed unsteadily onto the nearest stool. “Give me another one, Tucker.”
“You’re flagged.” The bartender barely spared him a glance. “Get out of here. Go home and sleep it off.”
Shawn’s face grew splotchy and red. “Don’t give me shit.”
Quentin tensed, sensing a nose-dive toward ugliness. All he wanted to do was finish his dinner and go to bed, but somehow he’d gotten ensnared in small-town drama. The door to the street swung open, distracting Shawn, who looked like he was winding up for verbal tirade.
“Hey.” A dark-haired man in a brown uniform stepped inside. A badge gleamed on his chest and a radio and a gun were holstered at his hip. The hat on his head identified him as belonging to the Mason County Sheriff’s Department. “I thought Eve and I would be the only ones here this late.”
Caden Flynn. Had to be.
“Shawn was just leaving.” Tucker inclined his head in what seemed to be a private signal. The corners of Flynn’s mouth tightened perceptibly, then quickly relaxed.