She grins and drops the keys into my palm. “Awesome.” Her eyes spark and her hand returns to her pocket. “Wait. Take this, too.” She pulls out a sealed envelope labeledClue No. 4and holds it out to me.
I take it and study it for a moment. Turning it over, I confirm that it’s unopened. “Where did you get this?”
“Noelle must have dropped it. I guess someone picked it up and threw it away. Brent Stillwater found it in the wastepaper basket in the restroom and brought it to me.”
“Thanks.” Then I frown. “What was he doing going through the bathroom trash?”
She drops her voice to a whisper. “I don’t mean to be unkind, Mr. Jolly. I understand he’s a genius or whatever, but he’s an unusual little kid. Who knows why he doesanything?”
“Fair enough.” I pocket the clue and head toward the back of the building. Then I remember I don’t know what she drives and turn on my heel. “What’s your ride?”
“It’s the white Nissan Altima parked at the end of the lot. Look for the pink cheetah print steering wheel cover.” She shares this information with a proud smile.
“Okay … thanks. I guess.”
As I run out the door, I remind myself beggars can’t be choosers and that, as a girl dad, I’ve driven worse. The Tuscadaro pink Jeep Wrangler Merry had in high school, for instance.
I repeat this reminder when I cram myself behind the wheel of Farah’s car, turn the key in the ignition, and have my eardrums nearly blown out by blaring K-pop music. And, again when the fuel indicator warning light confirms that I’llbe lucky to make it to the gas station before the little sedan runs out of gas.
By some miracle, I coast down Silver Bell Lane to the nearest filling station and putter to an open fuel pump. As I fill the tank, I tap my foot and will the gas to flow faster. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but this much, I do know: Noelle shouldn’t be out roaming alone while a strange guy’s lurking around town. The pump clicks off, and I jump back in the car and pull out like I’m being chased.
I’m coming, Noe. Don’t do anything stupid.
CHAPTER 19
Noelle
Isit in my car, my attention shifting from the map unfolded on my lap to the ramshackle shack with the drooping fairy lights strung along the roof. Dancing Ladies isn’t much to look at from the outside. I have a suspicion it’s not much to look at from the inside either, but I don’t have any firsthand knowledge to support this guess.
I’m stalling. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes even though the clue is glaringly obvious. This has to be the spot. It’s right there in the name. And the row of motorcycles parked to the right of the metal doors at the entrance might as well be a big, blinking arrow. The Lords of the Mountain are here. I don’t know if they’re leaping, exactly, but this is the right place. It has to be.
Still, I hesitate. Aside from being a skosh nervous aboutstrolling into a nudie bar frequented by a gang of bikers, I’m hung up on one detail. Dancing Ladies isn’t technically on the map. The spot where I sitison the map, but there’s no structure marked. So far, all the clues have been in places that are represented on the map. Even the waterfall and the big rock outcropping are drawn in. But not this strip club. And, technically, according to the signage on Hemlock Road, it’s just over the county line. I’m not in Mistletoe Mountain anymore, Toto.
“Stop being a chicken.” I say it aloud in an effort to convince myself to get moving.
I must be persuasive, because I fold up the map and return it to my glove box. Then I exit the car, tugging my hoodie down over the form-fitting yoga pants to cover my bum as I march toward the front door of the club. I reassure myself that no one’s going to be checking out my butt or any other part of my anatomy when the competition is flexible women who dance for a living. I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the sticky handle of the front door, and try not to imagine what substance might account for the stickiness as I give the door a push. I consider wiping my hand on my jacket and think better of it. Then I plunge into what I’m sure will be the dank, dark, dirty, and depressing interior of Dancing Ladies.
I stop just inside the door and blink. It’s none of these things. The decrepit exterior hides an open, airy room. Velvet settees and overstuffed chairs are scattered throughout the space in cozy groupings. A long, gleaming bar runs the length of one wall. Strings of tiny lights twinkle along the ceiling. It’s prettier than I’d expected.
There are, however, bikers everywhere. At first glance, they’re intimidating. Leather vests with no shirts underneath, tattoos, and heavy boots. Loud, raucous laughter and shouted conversations. But on closer inspection, I recognize several of the Lords. I spot the town orthodontist, the swim instructor from the pool, my insurance agent, and Brent Stillwater’s dad, who runs an animal rescue center.
Shifting my focus from the patrons to the performers, I see several women I recognize from Griselda’s studio. There are two satellite stages and a larger main stage. The dancers are not naked—they’re what I would calllightlyclothed. And judging by their hip gyrations, none of them get called out during Hoop It Up class.
I sidle up to the bar. After a moment, I catch the bartender’s eye. He’s a young guy, built like a linebacker, with close-cropped hair and an earring sparkling in one ear.
“What’s your poison?”
Just then, the music pulsing from the speakers hits a bridge and I have to shout, “Soda water with a twist of lime.”
He throws me a wink and mouths, “You got it.”
I’m trying to figure out the best way to ask this man if he has a clue for me when someone taps my shoulder.
“Ms. Winters?”
I turn around to see Delphina Gupta gawking at me. I gape back at her, as surprised as she is. “Noelle. If there’s ever a place that you should call me by my first name, it’s here.”
She tips back her head and laughs. “What areyoudoing here?”