Page 32 of Sleigh Bells and Snowstorms
Hopefully, his new look would calm things down. I wondered if my story about him being a runaway groom had already made the rounds, and people in the store were realizing it was him.
But that was fine. In fact, I could probably use it. If I dropped a few well-placed hints that we’d gone to Farm and Feed to disguise him as a local so he could evade the evil machinations of his father and arranged bride-to-be, it would lend more credence to the rumor. And if we played things right, Tilikum would develop a maternal protectiveness toward the handsome visitor.
Maybe that would lower the chances of the thief realizing who Jensen really was—and what he was doing in Tilikum.
And we’d be more likely to get the necklace back.
CHAPTER 8
Jensen
On the drive back to the flat, my mind should have been on one thing—my next move. Instead, I was thinking about how to convince Natalie to have dinner with me.
A voice in the back of my mind—one that sounded suspiciously like Maple—reminded me I had a job to do. And it was not Natalie Thatcher.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Well, since I don’t have a solid lead yet, my usual strategy is to keep my ear to the ground. Listen, observe, talk to people. See if I can spot anything that will point me in the right direction.”
She nodded slowly as if she were thinking. I paused, but she didn’t say anything.
“Do you have an idea?” I asked.
“I do, actually. I was thinking ear to the ground makes total sense. And if there is a jewelry thief in town, or someone who hired him, or even a buyer, there might be hints of that in the gossip line. So we should go somewhere that allows us to listen in.”
“And where would that be?”
She hesitated. “There are several options. The Steaming Mug, the coffee shop downtown, could be a good place.Especially if Louise Haven and her band of little old lady friends happen to be there. But for this, I think we need to go to the Timberbeast.”
“The timber what?”
“Timberbeast Tavern. It’s a local hangout.”
“Sounds charming.”
She laughed. “It’s a small-town bar. Nothing fancy, but the drinks are good. It caters more to locals than visitors, so townspeople tend to congregate there.”
“All right. Drinks at the Timberbeast.” I glanced at her and winked. “It’s a date.”
“Not that kind of date.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
The corner of my mouth lifted in a smirk, but I didn’t argue. She rolled her eyes.
I pulled up outside her house and parked. “What time shall we depart this evening for drinks that is not a date?”
“How about four?”
“Four? Isn’t that a bit early?”
“We’re looking for the ‘grabs a beer before dinner and probably goes to bed by nine’ crowd.”
“Fair enough. I’ll pick you up at four.”
“Still not a date, Jensen.”
