My Killer Vacation

“No.”

With a rumble of unpleasant words, he vanishes through the doorway. After making sure my clothing is fixed, I jog into the front yard behind him. Five heads have swiveled in our direction. Clipboard Guy stares, pen poised over the surface of his notes. Pantsuit woman’s smile appears to be frozen to her face. The camera crew continues what appears to be their mission to stage a mini press conference, complete with a glass podium on wheels.

“What’s going on here?” Myles demands to know.

“I could ask you the same question,” responds the young man. With an amused glance in Pantsuit’s direction, he wedges the clipboard beneath his arm and approaches us with a hand extended, which we take turns shaking. “I’m Kurt Forsythe, the mayor’s assistant.” He smiles over his shoulder, then directs that smile at me, where it broadens. “Surely you know the mayor, Rhonda Robinson.”

“We’re from out of town.” Did Myles just edge closer to me? “You getting ready to film something?”

Kurt tilts his head. “Do you own this property?”

The assistant poses the question in such a way that he obviously already knows the answer. Myles doesn’t bother responding. Just crosses his arms and regards Kurt like a flea.

“No, I didn’t think so,” the assistant says, taking a not so discreet step back from the bounty hunter. “Erm. Do you mind me asking what you’re doing here?”

“I’ve been hired by the family. Privately. To investigate the murder of Oscar Stanley.”

“I’m on vacation,” I say. “And also helping him investigate.”

Myles is already shaking his head. “No, she’s not.”

Kurt splits an amused look between us. “Interesting.”

“You’re a renter?” calls the woman in plum. The mayor, apparently. “You might want to cover your ears for this,” she says, giving me a wry smile. “I’m about to come for you.” She places her hands flat on the podium and nods at the cameraperson. The lighting person gives a thumbs up, followed by a red light blinking to life on the camera itself. “Good afternoon, residents. I know we’re all shaken up by the recent events that have transpired on the shores of our beloved community. A life was taken and my office wishes to extend heartfelt condolences to the family of the deceased, Oscar Stanley.”

The mayor adjusts her stance.

Kurt releases a gusty sigh, regarding his boss with visible pride.

“My office hears your concerns. They are more than valid,” continues Rhonda. “This unfortunate loss of life is part of a much larger problem, however—vacation rentals. The competitive discord they create and the disruption they cause to our daily life. This is an ongoing problem on the Cape and my promise to you, since the beginning, has been to regulate this market from taking over our Falmouth neighborhood and turning it into a party zone. Today, I want to reassure you that I am renewing my efforts to curb these noisy nuisances so that we can get back to enjoying our quiet summers with family and friends—it’s the Cape Cod way.”

A long pause ensues.

The red camera light turns off.

The mayor’s smile drops as the podium is removed in an efficient rush.

“That was perfect, mayor,” Kurt calls, flashing her an OK sign.

“Let’s have that up on the website immediately, please?” Rhonda says, now scrolling through her phone. “Send it to the local news and ask them for the six o’clock spot.”

Kurt is taking notes on his clipboard. “Already on it.” He turns to us—me, actually—grinning in a more relaxed manner than before. “I have to make sure the mayor makes it to her next appointment.” He rubs his eyebrow with the eraser of his pencil, shooting Myles a fleeting glance. “So you two are just co-workers or…?”

“Beat it, Kurt,” Myles interrupts, making a shooing motion.

A literal shooing flick of his wrist.

Without another word, the assistant turns on a heel and rejoins his boss.

“That was extremely rude.”

And I didn’t like that show of possessiveness at all.

Not one bit.

Right.

“If you’re still surprised by my rudeness, sweetheart, that’s on you.” Through narrowed eyes, he watches the major, Kurt and the film crew climb into their respective vans and cars. “I have to get to Worcester to question Judd Forrester.” He notices my blank look when he looks down at me. “The father of the girl who assaulted Oscar Stanley.”

“Right.” I guess we’re just going to ignore the fact that we almost made out on the floor a few minutes ago. The floor. The letter. The unlikely discovery we made before we almost kissed comes back to me in a deluge. “Do you think that threatening letter is from Judd Forrester? Do you think he wrote it to Stanley?”

“I don’t know.” Myles reenters the house with a heavy stride and I follow, watching him stoop down and pick up the letter where we left it on the floor. He straightens and turns, his eyes dancing across my neck, my mouth. Then away with determination. But not before my erogenous zones shriek for attention. God. What is this voltage between us? Is it normal? “But since Oscar lived in this house for almost a year, it seems more likely he would have known about the loose floorboard. Or even created it. Therefore…”