Page 79 of Tourist Season
Her words are sweet but fragile, like blossoms of color beneath the snow. But as much as Arthur wants to hold on to Harper’s promises, the confusion is evident in his cloudy eyes. It surfaces in the way his gaze shifts over her face, in the fear and distrust harrowed in the patchwork of wrinkles that net across his skin.
“But I saw you. In the cottage.” His voice wavers, his hand trembling on his cane. He tries to pull away from her and pace in agitation but finds it too difficult over the uneven ground. “There was so much blood.”
“Just a nightmare.”
“He wrote in yourskin—”
“It’s all okay.”
Arthur shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes. “You were gone. My Poppy. Isawyou.”
“Shh,” Harper whispers as Arthur repeats his words, the frustration climbing in his voice, making each note of distress grow louder. He runs a hand across his head as though trying to force the broken fragments of his thoughts into a picture he can recognize. “I can take you home now.”
“Who are you?”
Harper grips his hand in both of hers, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “I’m Harper. I’m your friend.”
“Where’s Poppy?” Arthur’s eyes cut to me as I lay my palm onHarper’s back, where the muscles are tense with the effort to hold back her emotion. “Who areyou?”
“I’m Nolan.” I reach out a hand in greeting and he eyes it with suspicion. “I think we’ve met once before, but you might not remember. It was a while ago. Nice to see you again, Mr. Lancaster.”
Arthur’s confusion deepens, but the distraction of my words seems to set him on a new path, just like I’d hoped. He shifts his cane to his left hand and takes my handshake with surprising strength.
“Harper came to take you home to Lancaster Manor. In the morning, she can show you the topiaries.”
“Yeah, we have a gardening competition to win, don’t we, Arthur?” she says, her tone infused with forced brightness. Every word feels ready to break open, to split apart and reveal the depth of her heartache. Her eyes quickly cut to the body beside her before she forces a smile. “We don’t want to lose to Sarah Winkle. It was pretty close last year.”
Arthur’s jaw works as he chews through his thoughts, his white brows lowering as a look of wrath descends on his face. “Sarah Winkle. That insipid, talentless busybody.”
Harper breathes a laugh, but sniffles as she nods. Though she tries to be discreet as she swipes the edge of her finger beneath her lashes, grief and worry still shine in her eyes. “Yeah. She’s a hack. We’d better be sure you like the moose, it’s been giving me some trouble. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”
“A moose, yes.” Though he looks tired, Arthur seems intrigued by the idea. The light that was absent from his eyes returns just a little, like a dim spark among ashes. For a long moment, he stares at the nearest gravestone, still chewing at his bottom lip just the same way Harper does when she’s lost in thought. And watchingher watch him, I can understand. It’s not just a friendship. It’s a kinship.
Harper takes a step closer, looping Arthur’s hand over her arm. “I can take you home now. We can get you cleaned up. I’ll polish up those Christina Riccis for you. Looks like you got a little blood on them.”
“Stefano Riccis, you recalcitrant clown.”
“My bad. So, do you want to tell me what happened?”
“That man,” he says as she starts leading him toward the car. “The man with the hideous little dog. Hehitme.”
“I can see that. You’re a little cut up.”
“I’m an old man, Harper. He hit anelderly man. Uncouth fiend, coming into our town to let his witless canine defecate everywhere and then strike the elderly of Cape Carnage. I despise him.”
“Well, he deserved what he got,” Harper says, letting a weighted beat of silence pass between them. “He did deserve it … right …?”
“Yes.Of coursehe did. Violent, terrible little man.”
I gather up the syringe and the scattered vials, placing them in Arthur’s bag before I follow. I slide the bag behind the driver’s seat. As soon as I’m done, I return to the body so I don’t risk further agitating Arthur with my presence. The rest of their conversation only comes in bits and pieces as Harper settles Arthur into the passenger seat, bringing a blanket from the trunk to lay over his lap before helping him with the seat belt. When she seems sure he’s comfortable, she closes the door and strides back to the family plot, returning to face me where I stand next to the cooling corpse.
“Oh my God, this is bad,” she says, her voice hushed and strained as she drags her hands down her face. “It’s so super bad. Arthurmight as well have carved his name right into the dude’s forehead. I can actually see the shape of his fucking cane handle.”
We both lean a little closer to the body. Sure enough, the outline of the distinctive curved handle and wolf’s head embellishment of Arthur’s cane is imprinted right there on his skin.
“Christ,” I hiss on a long exhale as we both straighten. “What do we do with the dog?”
Harper frowns, then bends to pick it up. “I’ll take”—she reads the dog’s name tag, then rolls her eyes—“Killer Queenie—Jesus fucking Christ, that’s the worst—back to Maria’s house. That’s where the guy was staying. If I leave the gate open a bit, his wife will probably figure Queenie here made her way home on her own. Hopefully …” She shifts her attention toward the car and then to the body before returning her gaze to me. “Are you sure about this?”
