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  "I can't leave Archie here by himself, wandering the streets. And I somehow doubt they'll let me take him with me to hospital." I nodded toward my ginger cat who was now grooming himself and apparently, disinterested in the excitement happening mere feet from him.

  Jackson scooped Archie up into his arms with zero protests from my cat. Carrying him to his car he deposited him onto the passenger seat before returning. "He'll be safe there. Once I've finished here, I'll take him to your Gran's."

  "When you're finished here? What do you mean?" I asked, watching as Bruce was strapped to a stretcher and wheeled toward the ambulance.

  "I need to find the bullet," Jackson said, shining his torch around the garden bed directly in front of The Dusty Attic windows.

  "Isn't it in Bruce's leg?" I frowned, confused.

  "It went all the way through," Jackson explained, "meaning what's left of it should be here somewhere. It's evidence."

  I nodded. "Right." And no wonder the bleeding hadn't stopped. I was only plugging one hole. I shuddered.

  "Your turn." The paramedics had returned.

  "I'm not getting on a stretcher," I said, reluctantly following them to the ambulance.

  "No need. You can ride up front with me. Stu needs to ride in the back with the patient anyway."

  "Oh well, in that case, fine." I paused at the passenger door and turned back to Jackson, "Please take care of Archie." The wobble was back in my voice and I clenched my bag to my chest, trying to hide my trembling.

  Jackson stopped what he was doing and looked directly at me, his eyes boring into me as if he could see into my very soul. "I will guard him with my life. No harm will come to him while in my care," he promised. I nodded. Right, that's good then.

  The paramedic helped me up into the cab. I'd already forgotten his name.

  "You all right there, Harper?" Bruce asked from the rear of the ambulance, his voice thick and heavy.

  "Yeah. I'm okay," I said. "How about you?"

  "They've got some good drugs."

  "Care to share?" I twisted to see him sucking on a green whistle-type contraption.

  "Nothing for you. You have a head injury," the paramedic told me. Then we were off to the hospital.

  "You appear to attract trouble." Officer Miles stood at the foot of the gurney I was sitting on, her face a mask of impatience.

  "A natural talent." I shrugged. I'd been given the all clear, given a couple of painkillers for my headache and told to report back immediately if I experienced any other symptoms. "You here to question Bruce?" I asked, digging in my bag for my phone. I'd call Jenna or Monica to come to pick me up.

  "Bruce is in surgery. I'm here to take you home."

  I snorted. "Sure you are."

  She crossed her arms and deadpanned, "I am."

  "You are?"

  She sighed. "If it weren't for the fact that you've sustained a head injury..." I figured she'd been about to say something insulting before she stopped herself. I guess I should be grateful for small mercies. "They told me you're free to go, so come on, let's go." She went to take my purse from me, but I snatched it to my chest as if she were a bag thief. She held both hands up. "Fine."

  Easing off the edge of the gurney, I slid my purse onto my shoulder and straightened my coat. I'd lost the belt. Goodness knows where it had ended up, but it didn't matter, it would be covered in blood now anyway. I followed Officer Miles out of emergency to the squad car parked outside.

  "Is the Dusty Attic a crime scene again?" I asked, breaking the frosty silence.

  "Detective Ward has called forensics in tonight," she replied, slamming her door and gunning the engine, keeping her eyes front.

  Gah, she was infuriating. I didn't know what that meant. Would I have access to my bookstore or not? "Can I open in the morning?" I tried a more direct question.

  "Affirmative," was the clipped response.

  "Good." Trying to make conversation with Officer Miles was like trying to get Monica to sunbathe. Just wasn't going to happen. Instead, I let the silence surround me, watching out the window as the streetlights whizzed past. Within minutes we were out front of Gran's house. I climbed out, said thank you, and slammed the door. She drove off immediately and I stood watching the patrol car’s tail light disappear down the road.

  "We need to call a meeting of the murder club!" Gran said from the doorway, waving at me to come inside.

  "Is Archie here?" I asked, hurrying up the path. Archie meowed in greeting, pushing past Gran's legs to greet me. "Oh, there you are. You okay, boy?" Picking him up, I buried my face in his fur and promptly burst into tears.

  "Long day, huh?" Gran put an arm around my shoulders and ushered me inside. "But you're okay or the docs wouldn't have let you out."

  "I'm fine." I sniffed, wiping my face. "It was just all so...shocking!" I exclaimed.

  "Come inside and tell me all about it. I've got a brandy with your name on it."

  "I don't think I'm meant to drink alcohol with a head injury," I pointed out.

  "Push smoosh." She waved away my concerns. "How about a soothing cup of tea then?"

  I stopped and looked at her. "Who are you and what have you done with my Gran?"

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a busy morning at The Dusty Attic. Gran had come in to lend a hand, even though I'd reassured her I was fine. My headache was gone, as was the lump on the back of my skull, and a good night’s sleep had done me a world of good. I'd woken this morning with Archie curled against my side, his warm body comforting, and I felt more my usual self and not the crying wreck of the night before.

  I'd come into work expecting there to be crime scene tape outside, but there was nothing to indicate anything had occurred except for the blood stains on the sidewalk. Gran took care of those with a wave of her wand and I left her to serve customers while I called a local maintenance man to come and check the thermostat which was in the off position again this morning, which meant another chilly start. Burt Reynolds—seriously, that's his name— assured me he would drop in today to take a look. He wondered if it was on some sort of timer that I didn't know about since the store had sat empty for so long.

  I'd just hung up from speaking with Burt when my phone rang again.

  "Harper Jones," I answered, eyeballing the boxes of books in the storeroom and making a mental note that I needed to sort through them and also to set up some vendor accounts with printers and publishers—if books continued to fly off the shelves, I'd need to restock sooner rather than later.

  "Hi, Harper, this is Amy from Mr. Sims’s office at the Whitefall Cove Bank."

  "Oh, hi, Amy, what can I do for you?"

  "I was just clearing Mr. Sims’s desk since he'll be out on sick leave for a while and I noticed he'd put a note on your file to ask you to drop in a copy of your purchase contract for The Dusty Attic? It's not urgent. We just need a copy for our records."

  "Sure, that's not a problem at all..." I paused, trying to remember where I'd put the contract. "Oh. Ummm, I'm not sure I have a copy," I admitted. "I signed it with Whitney the morning she...died. I don't recall getting a copy of it." The truth was I hadn't given it any thought. I'd left Whitney's office without the keys to the bookstore and I'd assumed she'd give me my copy of the contract when we met later to hand over the keys. Only that never happened. The police initially had possession of the keys until Jackson had given them back to me so I could research what had killed Whitney. I wondered if they had the contract too? Maybe it had been in Whitney's purse and was now in evidence.

  "Oh. Well, if you could follow up with Palmer Construction perhaps? It's probably in her office."

  "Yes, you're right. I'll chase that up and get a copy to you as soon as possible."

  "No rush, just something we need on hand for the auditors."

  "Okay. Thanks for the call, Amy. I'll drop in a copy when I have it."

  After hanging up, I went out to speak with Gran, who was flirting outrageously with a young man who was flirting
back with equal fervor. Once he'd left, I asked, "Gran, have you seen a copy of the purchase contract for this place lying around anywhere? I don't remember Whitney giving me my copy, but a lot happened that day and maybe I put it down at home or something."

  Gran readjusted her bra while she considered my question. "Nope, can't say I have. Why?"

  "Oh, the bank wants a copy to keep on file."

  "You can probably get a copy from Mike," Gran pointed out.

  I nodded. "Yeah, that's what Amy said. Do you mind holding down the fort while I pop over and see?"

  "Sure, love, I've got this all under control."

  Palmer Construction was within walking distance, not on Main Street where Jenna and I worked, but the street running across the end of Main, not quite on the corner but just visible from the Tribune offices. I decided to duck in to see Jenna on the way past, fill her in on what had happened the night before. Her office was upstairs and wasn't so much an office as an open workspace she shared with three others. Jenna had pushed her desk over to the window, so she could keep an eye on the comings and goings of Main Street. I'd called it spying, but Jenna had insisted she was doing a community service.

  "Good morning." I came up behind her, making her jump.

  Hand on her chest, she spun in her chair. "Jeez, Harper, little early in the morning for scaring the bejesus out of me, don't you think?" She grumbled, then frowned. "Why aren't you at The Dusty Attic?"

  "Don't fret." I leaned on the edge of her desk. "Gran's there taking care of things. I just need to duck into Whitney's office and see if she has my contract. The bank wants a copy and I don't recall her giving me the final signed copy."

  "Right," Jenna said, took a mouthful of coffee and grimaced. "Urgh. Cold." She put the cup back down in disgust. "So, you just popped in to say hello on your way past?"

  "Actually, no." I leaned down and dropped my voice, telling her about the shooting last night.

  "Shit, Harper, are you okay?" she whispered, grabbing my wrist, then glancing around to make sure her co-workers weren't watching.

  "I'm fine," I reassured her, "but…Bruce did get a partial license plate. And I was thinking with your research skills and informants, maybe...?" I trailed off.

  "You're thinking I could find out who the car belongs to?" she finished. She unearthed a notepad on her desk and grabbed a pencil. "Give it to me."

  "B-C-1," I told her. "And Bruce seemed to think the last digit was the number one as well. It's a dark sedan."

  "Well, it's not local, I can tell you that much." She tucked the pencil behind her ear. "Leave it with me. I know someone who might be able to help. And don't ask. I can't reveal my sources."

  I nodded, then slapped her on the shoulder as I straightened. "FYI, Bruce is still in the hospital—if you wanted to get some photos to go with your breaking story?" I winked. Maybe this would get her editor off her back for not breaking Whitney's murder case. She scooped up her phone and followed me downstairs, intent on getting the story before any of her co-workers. I bid farewell to her out the front and continued on to Palmer Construction.

  A feeling of deja vu swept over me as I pushed open the door to their offices. It was the same, but different. Christina sat at her desk, busy with a pile of paperwork. Mike had just stepped out of his office, coffee in hand, when he spied me.

  "Good morning, Harper." He smiled. "Didn't expect to see you today. How are things? How's the store?"

  I didn't know if anyone at Palmer Construction knew about Bruce yet, that he'd been shot, and I'd decided they weren't going to hear it from me because I'd been thinking about it ever since it had happened. Someone wanted Bruce dead. They'd tried to kill him. Which meant there was a fair chance that same person killed Whitney. The question was, why? I really wanted to talk with Jackson about the whole thing and had plans to go and visit him at the police station once I'd finished here.

  "Things are going very well, thank you." I smiled in return, allowing Mike to usher me into his office. He closed the door and indicated the seat in front of his desk.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked.

  "I got a call from the bank. They need a copy of my contract for the bookstore and I realize in everything that happened that day, that Whitney didn't actually give me my copy. I was wondering if it was here? In her office?"

  He sighed, pinching the top of his nose. "Most likely. Sorry about that. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but Whitney was dropping the ball on a lot of things lately."

  I wondered if Whitney had suspected her husband had been having an affair. That would explain her distraction and lack of attention to detail.

  Mike stood and opened his office door. "Christina!" he called. "Can you please check in Whitney's office for Harper's contract of sale?"

  "Absolutely not," Christina snapped. "You want me to find it, you pay me her salary."

  "Jesus Christ," Mike groaned, banging his head softly against the doorframe.

  Alarmed, I stood and touched his arm. "Hey, it's okay. Would you mind if I took a look? I know things were tense between Christina and Whitney and clearly, Christina is still very angry, so..."

  "Be my guest." He sounded weary, beaten down, and I decided to hold off asking about the bonus he'd paid Whitney now that I had the opportunity to poke around in her office. Something I hadn't expected to happen.

  I followed Mike to Whitney's office where he flung open the door. Stepping inside, it was clear the police had searched her office, fingerprint powder covered her desk and the papers and files that had previously been strewn about where now neatly stacked in a box. Another box sat on the floor.

  "Might take you a while," Mike apologized. "The police didn’t take any of her paperwork as far as I’m aware, it’s been boxed up though, so you may have to dig." He was shaking his head as he left, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone in Whitney's office.

  Starting at the box on her desk, I began sifting through the piles of papers and files, searching for my contract but also keeping my eyes peeled for anything of interest. What if my earlier thoughts were correct and whoever killed Whitney had taken a shot at Bruce? That meant the killer was still out there—and it wasn't Bruce. He'd had a motive, yes, but that didn't make him guilty. I paused to text Jenna and Monica.

  Murder Club meeting at The Dusty Attic, tonight at eight.

  I'm in, Jenna wrote back immediately. Nothing from Monica, but since she worked nights, I figured she'd read my message later and get back to me then.

  I'd gone through everything in the box, laying it out into relevant piles. Client files on the left, correspondence on the right. Like it or not, Mike was going to have to hire someone—or pay Christina extra—to sort out the whole mess, and while I was more than capable of doing it, I now had my own business to run, plus I didn't want to overstep the mark. A little voice in my head reminded me that I was massively overstepping by snooping through Whitney's office in the first place.

  And then I found it. Not only my contract but also a black and white photograph, printed on standard office paper, of Mike in a passionate embrace with a woman. It was stuck between two pieces of paper and I assumed the police had flicked through Whitney’s paperwork so fast it had been missed. Sliding the picture into my purse, I picked up the contract and let myself out, waving the contract at Christina who'd quickly slammed shut a file on her desk when I'd appeared. "Found it!" I called.

  "Great," she muttered, obviously not giving a damn.

  "Thank Mike for me, would you? Bye."

  "Bye." I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I walked out.

  "I hereby call the murder club to order!" Gran announced with a flourish. Jenna and Monica smiled indulgently while I shook my head in resignation. Monica had brought pizza with her and we were seated in front of the fireplace, eating.

  "I hope you're not telling people that we have a murder club," I muttered, wiping my hands on a napkin.

  "Of course not." Settling back into an armchair, sh
e patted her lap and Archie immediately jumped up, kneaded her thighs into submission before curling up in a ball, his purr showing his contentment. "So, we going to get started or what?"

  Moving the bookcase out of the way, I revealed the crime board. Monica jumped up and began updating the timeline with what we'd learned about Bruce and Wendy.

  "Here's what you don't know," I told Monica, twisting the marker between my fingers. "Last night, someone tried to kill Bruce."

  "What?" Monica blinked, mouth dropping open. I looked at Gran, my suspicions confirmed. She hadn't told her. I thought she would have blabbed the first chance she got, but she'd proved me wrong.

  "Don't look at me like that," she grumbled. "I didn't tell anyone what happened here last night. I don't think I've ever seen you so upset, not even with all the trouble with Simon McDouche face."

  "Here? It happened here?" Monica gasped, eyes stricken as she turned to me.

  I nodded. "I was locking up, Bruce was coming down the street and called out for me to wait, so I did. We were talking when a car went past and opened fire. He got hit. He's okay, the bullet hit his leg."

  "Geez." Monica shook her head. "A drive-by shooting in sleepy little Whitefall Cove."

  "What do the police think?" Gran asked, and I shrugged.

  "Jackson was here last night after it happened, searching for the bullet. I haven't talked to him since then."

  "What do you think? This changes things, doesn't it? That maybe he didn't kill Whitney? Or do we have two killers on the loose?" Monica asked.

  "That's why I wanted to meet,” I said. “To sort through all that we know. And there's something else."

  "There's more?" Monica resumed her seat on the sofa, arching a brow. I taped the photo of Mike and the woman he was kissing up on the board. Monica and Jenna peered at it.

  "That's definitely Mike Palmer," Jenna said. "And the woman...that looks like it could be Lexi."

  "Lexi? The barista from Bean Me Up?" I asked, peering at the grainy image.