Chapter 17: Treasure Box

Not only did I humiliate myself in front of the Wilkins's, we barely made it to the end of the walk when Petunia lay down and refused to walk any further.

"Oh, no you don't," I said. "Up, young lady. We need to get out of here."

But she clearly had her dose of exercise for the day and wasn't going anywhere, her round belly heaving, pathetic pug face turned up to me like I should go on without her because she couldn't make it another step in the falling darkness.

I don't know if you've ever tried to carry a portly pug or not, but let me tell you, it's not a pleasant process. First, she was dead weight, and she wanted to lick me in thanks or to prove her ownership of my clearly pathetic self-esteem. And the farting. I can't even talk about the farting. No more cheese for her ever. I think I was stoned on the stench by the time I set her down in the foyer of the B&B, Mom's smile of greeting turning to a faintly disgusted look of shock at my red face and the miasma of smell still lingering.

"Thanks, Mom," I said, sinking to the bottom step of the main staircase to catch my breath.

"Any time, sweetie," she said, easing toward the door while Petunia happily let another one rip. "You really should take her to the vet. I think there's something wrong with her insides."

I glared at Mom as she waved and left, before turning my attention to the stinky pug. "Outside," I snapped, pointing at the kitchen. And followed her out to the back garden. Petunia found a lovely spot in the middle of the path to do her business, looking up at me with her bulging eyes as if holding eye contact was her only lifeline while she extruded a giant pile of brown and orange goo on the walkway.

Done, she grunted and sat next to it, tongue lolling out, like she was proud of her accomplishment. While I fetched the small garden shovel and buried the evidence while doing my best not to throw up.

The only benefit? She chose to have her giant, stinky dump near the crime scene. And that gave me the prompting to use said shovel on the box. First. Because no way was I getting dog poo on it.

Petunia observed with quiet concentration while I uncovered the treasure. The box, rusted and pitted but still solid, bore a newish looking padlock, the twelve inch by six inch by six inch rectangle a little heavy in my hand when I lifted it from the ground and dusted it off. A quick glance around to make sure I was alone and I was hustling down the path to the house and down the steps to my apartment, Petunia clicking her way behind me.

I set it on my kitchen counter, examining the lock. I had no idea what combination to use, the thing reminding me of high school and forgetting the slip of paper with the urgently important numbers on it usually within minutes of closing the hasp. I could just cut it off, but without the proper tool I'd be wasting my time.

The sound of footsteps upstairs and the door opening to laughing guests returning lured me away and it wasn't until I fell into bed later that night I thought again about the odd box on my kitchen island. I stared at it the next morning over a cup of coffee but didn't have time to do a thing about it. Sunday morning loomed and I had a huge day ahead of me.

Did I. Sundays were like Armageddon for businesses in Reading, and Petunia's was no exception. The mass exodus of clientele met the influx of newbies to the point I was grateful to have Daisy there so I wasn't on my own. The foyer, as big as it was, packed with people and luggage going out and coming in, overflowing often into the front sitting room while Petunia wandered between legs and rollies for her goodbye and welcome pets. Both Mary and Betty stayed out of view, bless their old, cold, withered hearts. Not like I could have used the extra hands or anything.

By the time the rooms turned over, me scrambling to change linens and clean bathrooms while Daisy reminded new guests check-in wasn't until 1PM, a rule they ignored anyway, it was after 2:30 and I hadn't had a chance to eat breakfast let alone pee or think or do anything but scrub, fluff and tuck.

Daisy, looking as polished and unruffled as always despite her slightly frantic approach to the morning, sat next to me with a happy sigh and sipped her coffee, helping herself to the tray of sandwiches I placed between us while Betty huffed her silent disdain for our intrusion on her domain. Let her be pissed. We'd just cleared and reloaded the entire B&B without one person losing their temper, including us. The finger sandwiches Betty made for tea were a small price for her to pay.

Daisy nibbled a corner of cream cheese and cucumber, offering a little to Petunia while I groaned but didn't argue. The pug slorped down her portion and looked for more while I took a grateful drink of my own java.

"How was your date last night?" I could at least try to be a friend and show interest in Daisy's life. Kudos to me for remembering she even had a date, right?

She wriggled her narrow butt on her stool, pale pink skirt riding up and her cute little matching sweater tugging at the front when she did. "Just a tourist," she said, rolling her eyes like that meant something. "Free dinner, though."

I loved her attitude, laughed. "So that's your suggestion for a love life around here, huh? Date tourists for the cheap grocery bills?"

Daisy tinkled her own laugh, squeezing my hand. "Trust me," she said, "there's not much selection otherwise. Except that very cute and super dreamy sheriff of ours." She sighed and propped her cleft chin in her palm while I choked on my coffee. "So handsome. And that butt in those jeans."

Yes, I'd thought the same thing. But it was pretty clear Crew Turner and I weren't ever meant to be anything but head butting antagonists. So I was having a hard time thinking about him like that.

That butt. Those jeans. Liar.

I set down my coffee cup, annoyed my hands shook a little. "Well, you can have him," I said, surprised at the level of bitterness in my voice, hating I sounded like I imagined Betty and Mary were in their own heads. "And every other man on the planet."

Daisy's big eyes flew wider. "I didn't know you were gay." She patted my hand. "I shouldn't assume."

Oh, for the love of... "I'm not gay," I said. "Just over men."

She frowned a little, head tilt making her confusion clear. "But that's impossible. Isn't it?"

If only. "Tell my ex that the next time you see him," I said.

She leaned toward me then, all ears. "You never did fill me in on what happened."

It was only then I realized I didn't want to talk about it. Or Crew, or anyone else. And that I really was over men, thank you. No, boys. Because that's what they acted like. Even my stubborn, avoiding, frustrating father.

Daisy must have realized I wasn't going to answer, because she let it go with the kind of grace I only wished I had at that moment. "Well, if Crew's not your type, we'll find you someone." She perked. "How about that cute Jared Wilkins?" She hesitated then as if only realizing what she just said while I choked a laugh.

"Is that Pete's son's name?" I rolled my eyes. "Just as soon as he gets over the fact his dad died in my back garden, I'm sure we'll be very happy together. And if he wasn't five years younger than me." If not more.

Daisy shrugged. "Didn't stop Vivian."

Do tell. "How nice for her." Bitter, yup.

"Not like Jared gave her much of a shot, though." Conspiracy was Daisy's favorite. She grinned, tight and wicked. "Besides, he's far too nice to go for anyone as horrible as her."

Nice? Was that true? "Nothing like his dad, then?"

Daisy shook her head, honey hair bouncing. "Not a bit," she said. "In fact, he's super kind, volunteers and gives back to the community all the time. Even sponsored the new soup kitchen. Much more his mom Aundrea than anything." Didn't sound like the Pete I met briefly and hated instantly. "He's been at odds with his father for years. In fact," she gave another chunk of sandwich to Petunia as she spoke, "Jared and Pete had a huge fight the day before he died outside Sammy's Coffee downtown."

They had what? I stared at Daisy who straightened from her snack offering as if she hadn't just dropped another suspect in my lap. Forget the coroner's accidental death ruling. Pete's enemies and possible murderer pool was growing by the second.

"Why didn't you tell Crew that?" It would have possibly deflected the sheriff away from me the morning I found the body. Maybe.

Daisy's face crumpled. "Oh, Fee," she said. "I'm sorry. I should have, shouldn't I? I'll do that right away."

No use in getting angry with her, not now. I shook my head and leaned back, forced a smile.

"It's okay." I felt like the rest of my life was going to be telling Daisy nothing she did was her fault. "I'll fill him in."

Would I. Right after I handed him Simon and Terri's story. Because I was done being the focus of Crew's suspect pool, thank you very much.

***